


call me back, will ya?

by thewordsofalullaby



Series: green light [1]
Category: New Girl
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Extended Scene, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Missing Scene, Slow Burn, Voicemail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 49,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26815672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewordsofalullaby/pseuds/thewordsofalullaby
Summary: Hey Jess, it’s Nick again, but you probably already know that. Cece told me you’re in Portland and I’m not sure why you couldn’t just tell me that—did I do something wrong? If I did, I’m really sorry, and—anyway, I just, I hope you’re alright. Call me if ya need anything, okay?a.k.a. what Nick was doing at the end of S6 and how he realised he was in love with his best friend.(S6 fic; mostly canon-compliant, but with lots of extended/extra scenes)
Relationships: Cece Parekh/Schmidt (New Girl), Jessica Day & Cece Parekh, Jessica Day & Nick Miller, Jessica Day/Nick Miller, Nick Miller & Schmidt (New Girl), Reagan Lucas/Nick Miller, Winston Bishop & Nick Miller, Winston Bishop/Aly Nelson
Series: green light [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2086224
Comments: 241
Kudos: 153





	1. the inhabitants of 4D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! this is my nick headcanon of what i think happened in the last few episodes of S6 - enjoy!

_“Hey Jess, it’s Nick again – I know this is the fifth voicemail I’ve left you today, but just call me back, will ya?”_

He sighs, lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding in, and rubs a hand across his face. He doesn’t understand why Jess has suddenly left without leaving him ( _them_ ) more than a note – that she didn’t even deliver herself, but got some _kid_ in a trenchcoat to deliver (sidenote, but yeah, it was a nice trenchcoat; maybe he can track the kid down after he’s done with his signings, find out where to buy one, and—yeah, focus Nick; one, that’s really not what’s important right now and two, Schmidt would banish your ass from 4D) – why every time someone asks him what his book is about, the only thing he can manage to choke out is those words that Jess had said about it (“ _it’s about a man with nothing, risking everything to feel something”_ ), and most importantly, why on Earth Jess isn’t calling him back. It just doesn’t sit right with him; Jess is the type of person who _always_ replies to (his) messages, no matter what time it is or what she’s doing, and sure, there aren’t many things that he would claim to know a lot about (or, okay, even a little about – why does that stupid voice in his head always sound like Theodore K. Mullins? Damn you, Winston), but he _knows_ Jessica Day. There’s something fishy going on.

* * *

He tries Cece next in between signing a copy of The Pepperwood Chronicles for a girl that he’s not so sure should be here unaccompanied (she’s, what, seven? He can't remember if he knew how to read at seven, and--oh damn it, shed scene), but he also knows that he doesn’t care enough to do anything about it. Besides, Reagan doesn’t seem worried at all, just giving the girl a polite smile as she idly flicks through a copy of his book that she _still hasn’t read_ (he’s not mad about it, he’s really not; he knows how much she hates fiction and he’s not going to force her to read it, but…yeah, doesn’t matter), and they both know that she’s the sensible one here.

...except, it turns out that he doesn't actually have Cece's number saved in his phone (makes sense, he supposes - he can't really remember a time when they've hung out, just the two of them. Well, apart from when they're at the bar and she's, you know, working for him. His bad.) He frowns at the screen, rubbing a hand over his face again. He calls Schmidt next, because if Schmidt doesn’t pick up then, well, what’s wrong here is much bigger than he thinks and they’re about to enter a damn zombie apocalypse or something (it wouldn’t be the worse way to go – Sleeping Nick has thought about it a lot; he’d much rather die running away from zombies than peacefully in his _sleep._ That’s boring.)

“Nick? Nicholas?”

He breathes a sigh of relief, tilting his gaze towards the sky as the familiar voice filters into his ear.

“Hey man,” he starts, shooting Reagan a reassuring – or, what he hopes is reassuring – smile as she watches him from behind a pile of Pepperwoods. “Have you heard from Jess? She just disappeared and she’s not picking up my calls—"

“— _You_ called _me_ to ask about Jess?”

“No, I—I actually called you to ask Cece about Jess,” he corrects, because he's an awful liar, and then swiftly holds the phone away from his ear with a wince as Schmidt starts raising his voice, yelling down the line (Nicholas, you are the most _ungrateful_ friend – I’ve texted you thirty eight times today ( _I didn’t ask you to!)_ , and the first time you acknowledge my presence, you want to talk to Cece? I mean, I get it, let me assure you, I _get_ it, but Nicholas Miller—)

“Hey Nick,” he hears, quickly followed by a hushed, “Babe, it’s okay. Pass me the phone.”

“Have you heard from Jess?” Nick asks, phone clutched to his ear as he spots a bench and moves over to sit down (yeah, yeah, so today’s been mostly sitting around and signing books, but _man_ , is that stuff exhausting – sue him, except don’t, because he’s only signed nine copies today (nine!) and he’s still very poor, thank you very much). 

He doesn’t get a reply, the line falling deadly silent on the other end.

“Hello? You still there?”

“Yeah, still here,” she replies, her words coming out slowly, _too slowly_. “Jess is…Jess is fine, she’s just gone to Portland to spend some time with her dad. Don’t worry about it.”

“With her dad?” He asks, followed by, “So, she’s okay?”

“Yes, she’s…fine,” Cece says, and sure, he’s not the best at reading people, but he’s not a complete idiot (you sure about that?—god, shut up, Theodore—Winston—that damn voice in his head): he can hear the hesitation and now he’s 100% sure there’s something going on. Something he doesn’t understand and something that he’s pretty sure Jess and Cece are keeping from him.

“What does that mean?”

She pauses. “Don’t worry about it,” she says, and he frowns, because now he _is_ worrying, a hand haphazardly raking through his hair. “Just, just give her some space.”

* * *

Winston’s the next one to get a call. It’s the evening now, and he’s about to grab some dinner with Reagan, but he just can’t stop thinking about Jess leaving without a word, Cece’s vague answers on the phone, and—

“Hey, you okay?”

He shakes his head to refocus his thoughts and raises his head to meet Reagan’s eyes, shooting her a smile.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he replies, because he _is_.

He’s at Socalyalcon VI, promoting an actual book he wrote with his _girlfriend_ by his side, and—god, why can’t he just stop thinking for once? This is the life that eighteen year old Nick Miller dreamt about and he should be _enjoying this_ —but it’s Jess, and she’s his best friend (sorry, Schmidt), and he just can’t let this go.

“I just, I need to make a call.”

“Sure,” Reagan says, with a shrug, retreating back into the ( _their_ ) bedroom without giving him a second glance, “I’ll just go and get ready.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, waving a hand towards the room even though she’s already long gone, “Thanks.”

He walks slowly to the window, quickly pulling his phone out of his pocket, giving the cracked screen a (much needed) rough wipe with the edge of his shirt before scrolling to find the number he wants. He gives himself a brief slap on the face ( _focus_ , Nick), then stabs at the button. Let’s face it, he’s _confused_ as hell, and well, he needs some help – not that he would ever admit that out loud.

“Hey Winston,” he says down the phone, and then frowns as he hears calming music playing down the line – a lullaby, of sorts. There’s no way Winston could know what was going on in his head and why he was calling, right? Because that would be crazy (he’s not even sure _he_ knows why he’s calling Winston, if he’s completely honest), but also, it would explain so much…

“Nick! You’re just in time!” Winston replies, voice cheery enough that it makes him wince, “I was about to sing Furguson to sleep! You know this song, right? Join in on three—"

“—Wait, wait, _no,”_ he cuts in, as Winston’s words register in his head and he realises that this music? It’s for a damn _cat,_ not for him, who has real, human life problems. Well, he thinks he does? He’s not really sure what’s going on anymore.

“Think about what you’re saying right now, man,” he says, as the music just gets louder and Winston starts singing, completely off-key but with unnecessary enthusiasm. “I’m not about to _sing_ for a cat—It’s a cat, man!”

A pause.

Music cuts out.

“Furguson and I are going to pretend that we didn’t hear that and move on,” Winston says.

He hears the sound of shuffling footsteps and he knows he should really be saying something because he’s the one that called and interrupted this…weird ritual, but he can’t find the words to voice all the thoughts swirling around in his head because, well, he doesn’t know where to start.

“So, tell me, what’s going on with you, Nick?”

“What makes you think something’s going on?” He asks, almost defensively, rubbing at his forehead with his free hand.

“ _Nick_.”

“Winston,” he replies, curtly, but this is his oldest friend, and he knows that Winston sees right through him.

He swallows thickly, sighs, and then, “I don’t know. Everything was fine, with Reagan and me, and Jess, but then she just _left_ and she won’t pick up my calls, and Cece won’t tell me anything, but I know there’s something that the two of them are hiding from me and—"

“—Hold up, Jess isn’t picking up the phone?” Winston questions, and he knows that Winston understands the sheer magnitude of that act.

It’s _Jess_. Jess, who is maybe the greatest people-pleaser he knows, the type of person who will try to talk sense into a man holding a _gun_ , and yeah, there’s no way she would just let him leave her seven voicemails (and counting) and not call. It’s _Jess_. That’s just not her.

“Okay, let me try her,” Winston says, and he can hear the concern in his voice too, “I’ll text you if I hear anything.”

He breathes out slowly, nods, and then remembers that Winston can’t see him through the phone.

“Thanks, man,” he says sincerely, feeling suddenly calmer and unburdened, “I owe ya one.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Winston replies, and Nick frowns hard, because _damn it_ , he will and _damn it_ , he might as well start practicing singing stupid cat lullabies right now. (Are cat lullabies the same as human lullabies? Like, do baby cats fall asleep to the same type of music as baby humans? Serious question.)

* * *

_Hate to break it to you, but she picked up my call_. – W (a.k.a. Winnie The Bish)

He blinks, not quite believing the words he’s seeing on his screen. He checks his missed call log to see if maybe he just missed a call from Jess whilst he was out having dinner with Reagan, but nope, nothing—and okay, now he’s kinda mad. What kind of friend just leaves without telling their friend that they’re leaving? And doesn’t pick up her phone after their friend has left them almost ten voicemails? And—wait, did he do something to upset her? He frowns, swallows, racking his brain, but comes up short. He doesn’t think he has, but he has to admit, it does kinda sound like something that he would do: something stupid, and not realise it. It’s Jess, after all, and she wouldn’t just ignore (his) messages unless she had a good reason to. She’s too much of a good person to do that. He bites down on his lip hard, raking a hand through his hair, and decides to try Jess again – even though, he already knows in his heart that it’s going to go straight to voicemail.

It does.

* * *

_“Hey Jess, it’s Nick again, but you probably already know that. Cece told me you’re in Portland and I’m not sure why you couldn’t just tell me that—did I do something wrong? If I did, I’m really sorry, and—anyway, I just, I hope you’re alright. Call me if ya need anything, okay_?”


	2. tran's advice and drunk jess

It’s two days later and he’s still at Socalyalcon VI, and Jess is _still_ not answering his calls. He knows by now that Jess is not only answering Winston’s calls, but also Schimdt’s ( _spit it out,_ _what did you do to Jess, Nicholas? You know you’re the dumbest boy in school, it’s what I’ve been telling you ever since we met and_ – Nick hangs up after that because, yeah, he knows he is, and he lets himself feel vindicated when Schmidt doesn’t leave him a single text message for a whole twenty four hours). He’s not any closer to figuring out what’s going on and so, he calls the one person that always helps him make sense of the thoughts in his head: Tran.

…Well, he tries to call Tran, and then remembers that he never actually had Tran’s phone number (does he even own a phone?) and so, he calls Kai first – a bit awkward, all things considered, but hey. It takes her a while to answer and when she does, she doesn’t exactly sound pleased to hear from him because one, he apparently woke her up from a nap (though, he double-checks his watch as she complains and it’s like 11 in the morning so…a nap? Really? He’s not sure whether to be impressed or, _impressed_ ) and two, there’s the whole, you know, ex-girl he used to date thing. He eventually gets Tran’s number from her, if only because she would just like to _go back to sleep_ , thanks, and he quickly hangs up, apologising once more for disturbing her. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he hears the line go dead and, yeah, let’s not ever do that again, Nick.

His phone call to Tran ends up being not so much of phone call, but a FaceTime, because their level of communication goes way past what a simple phone call can deliver. (Sometimes he’ll be lying on his bed, just staring at the ceiling, and he’ll let himself wonder if Tran is his soulmate – not that he believes in soulmates, _obviously_ , but he swears that guy has a way of seeing right into his thoughts, his past, his future). Tran’s sitting on their park bench, smiling down at the screen, and Nick takes a deep breath, instantly feeling a bit brighter.

  
“Hey, Tran,” he says, smiling despite himself. Tran just continues grinning back at him, his eyes soft and welcoming, and suddenly Nick’s mouth is open and he’s rambling, words spilling out before he has a chance to think about them. He tells Tran about his time at Socalyalcon VI, how he’s managed to sell over ten books (double-digits! He’s a bona fide writer now!), how things with Reagan have been going great ( _I mean, she hasn’t even read my book, which is, you know, whatever—but she’s here and that’s what really matters!)_ , and then…how Jess left, and how he’s not sure why she’s ignoring him, but she is, and _what did he do?_

“Sorry, getting ahead of myself,” he says, swallowing. Tran tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowing slightly, pursing his lips and, _yes_ , _of course!_ “You’re a genius. I don’t know how, but you always know all the answers.” Nick tells him sincerely, then falls silent as he watches Tran tell him a story about how he got to the park bench this morning and there was a racoon already sitting on Nick’s end and— “A _racoon?_ In my spot? I hope you scared that thing away.”

* * *

_“Hey Jess. I’m not sure why you’re answering everyone’s calls and not mine, but please call me back? I called Tran today and he told me that there’s a racoon that’s been sitting in my spot on the bench, can you believe it? And—you know what, never mind. Just call me back, I’ll tell you the story in person.”_

* * *

He decides to take Tran’s advice, because that guy has never failed to give him great advice, and he rings Jess’ dad. He’s not really sure why he has Jess’ dad’s number saved on his phone, except that, you know, Jess has his mum’s number in her phone in case of emergencies and it just seemed to make sense—although now that he thinks about it, if there was an emergency, he’s pretty sure that Bob would prefer to be hearing from Cece rather than from him…

“Hello? Who the hell is this?” Nick blinks, half surprised that Bob had picked up the phone, his palms starting to sweat as he realises that he might actually get to talk to Jess and find out what on _Earth_ is going on. “I’m hanging up right now—”

“Wait, hey, this is Nick,” he cuts in quickly, swiping his palms against the front of his trousers. Why are his palms so clammy? “Is Jess there? Can I speak to her?”

“Call her yourself,” Bob replies, and he can picture the frown that’s on his face if he closes his eyes. “Why do you even have my number? You know I don’t like you.”

“—Well, that’s the problem,” Nick bites out, because _damn it_ , this conversation isn’t going the way that he planned. “Jess won’t answer my calls!”

There’s a pause and Nick feels his heart beating hard in his chest, though he’s not exactly sure why. Before he has a chance to process that unusual biological reaction of his, he hears the line go dead as Bob hangs up on him without another word. Great, _just great_. Now he’s managed to piss off Jess and her dad – nice one, Miller.

* * *

The next person he talks to about it is…well, Reagan. It’s less of a ‘talk’, but more just him complaining that Jess isn’t picking up the phone every ten minutes. Reagan, to her credit, stays mostly out of it, just telling him that Jess is probably fine (it’s _Jess_ , you know how she is – except yeah, he does, and that’s the whole problem here!) and focuses instead on creating meticulously tidy, stacked piles of The Pepperwood Chronicles on the table.

“Look, if it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll try to call her, okay?” Reagan says, after living through the latest Jess-centred rant, her hand landing on his shoulder. He leans into her touch just a tad, takes a deep breath and nods, shooting her a grateful smile and pressing a chaste kiss on her cheek. He dimly thinks to himself that he’s being a pretty shitty boyfriend, dragging her all the way to a convention to watch him a sell a book she hasn’t _even read_ , whilst constantly having mini-meltdowns about Jess, who, yes, is both of their friends, but also, you know, his ex-girlfriend. But hey, he’s Nick Miller, and she knew what she was getting into and— _why won’t Jess call him back?_

He watches as Reagan slips her phone out of her pocket and dials Jess’ number, stepping away from the table and turning her back to him as she lifts it to the side of her face. He holds his breath, feeling that weird ache in his chest again, but before he can think too much about it, he’s approached by two girls hugging copies of his book to their chests.

“Hey,” he says, tearing his eyes away from Reagan, dutifully signing the copies of his book that they shove in front of him.

“Go kill yourself,” he tells them seriously as he finishes off his signature with a flourish, then follows it up with a, “you’ll get that reference when you read it, I promise. I don’t really hope that you kill yourself; in fact, I hope you live long, happy, eventful lives and—yeah, uh, enjoy?”

He’s halfway through mentally berating himself for that interaction ( _long, happy, eventful lives_? Really, Nick? Aren’t you supposed to be a writer and, you know, relatively decent with words?) when Reagan returns to the table. He looks up at her hopefully, but it quickly fades as he registers the frown on her face. He knows before she opens her mouth and tells him that, yeah, it’s not just Nick who Jess is avoiding, but Reagan too.

* * *

He doesn’t think too much about the whole Jess thing for the rest of the day, getting unusually swarmed at the book signing tables (it turns out that signing books with _kill yourself_ has become a weird sort of attraction and suddenly there are lots of people that want him to write those exact words down, but like, he doesn’t actually mean it, okay? He doesn’t want any blood on his hands). He doesn’t think about it when he and Reagan manage to finally escape back to the hotel room, his ears finally blessed with _quiet_ , away from the sounds of excited screaming. He doesn’t even think about it when they decide to order a Chinese takeaway instead of going out for dinner and he fondly remembers Jess’ (very much self-induced) fight with Hop Foo. He manages to avoid thinking about it so much that when his phone does ring late that night, he immediately assumes that it’s Schmidt calling to wish him goodnight as he has done every night that he’s been away from the loft (it’s weird, very weird, but also kinda comforting to know that Schmidt clearly misses him – at least _someone_ does).

Except it’s not Schmidt, but it’s Jess; more specifically, _drunk_ Jess. He clutches the phone tight nevertheless, because he hasn’t heard her voice in three days and he’s missed his best friend a whole lot, even if she’s currently singing his name at him in that weird high-pitched voice she does sometimes, and her words aren’t completely coherent.

“Miller! Nicholas Miller! Nic-hol-as!” he hears, and he grins despite himself.

“Hey Jess,” he replies, throwing himself down on the couch and getting comfortable.

He still has no idea why she’s been ignoring him (and Reagan), but she’s calling him now and he momentarily forgets all that because he’s just relieved that she’s still alive and _remembers his name_.

“Having a good time without me, are ya?”

There’s a pause, and he hears the distinct sound of liquid being poured into a glass.

“Nope,” she admits, and he presses his lips together as he waits for her to continue talking – he knows Jess well enough to know that drunk Jess is no filter, talkative Jess.

“I started drinking because I was sad and you know there’s nothing that cheers me up more than pink wine—”

He leans back into the couch as Jess starts rambling on about her day, before her words fully sink in and he interrupts her, frowning slightly.

“Why were you sad, Jessica? What were you sad about?” he asks, mentally cursing himself as she suddenly falls silent on the other end and he prays that she isn’t about to hang up on him – he’s not sure he could take that.

“Jess?”

“I’m not—I can’t tell you that,” she says slowly, carefully.

“Why not?”

There’s another pause.

And then— “I just shrugged, Nicholas,” she says, and he laughs softly despite himself.

Drunk Jess is one of his favourite Jess’, just after High Jess. He opens his mouth to press her more on that, but Jess is already rapidly speaking over him, words tumbling fast, painting a vivid picture of the events of her day when, suddenly, she’s gone. Just like that. Nick stares at the phone in slight disbelief, opening and closing his mouth a couple of times, before he slaps his cheeks twice, redialling her number.

She doesn’t pick up.

* * *

_Did I call you last night? Jess xox_

_Call me later today? I want to talk to you. – Nick_

_I miss ya. - Nick_

No response.


	3. julius pepperwood and genzlinger

He calls the phone company next – not because he wants to, because he very much _does not want to_ , but he doesn’t believe in being tied into contracts. Oh, and also because, yeah, he may be thirty-something, but he still hasn’t figured out an easier way to top up his phone credit. He’s sure he could if he thought about it for more than a second (he’s not _stupid_ – he’s practically a lawyer, thank you very much), but hey, why waste time doing that when this method has never failed him before? Besides, it frees up his time to think about the more important things in life: like, for instance, why the government decided to fake the moon landing and why Jessica Day isn’t answering his calls.

“Hello? How can I help you today?”

He fishes his wallet ( _that’s not a wallet, Nick, that’s a generic plastic bag – not even a Ziploc bag!_ ) out of his pocket, rummaging through the coins and long-forgotten loyalty cards until he finds what he’s looking for. He’s halfway through reading out his credit card number when the phone line goes dead, and _fuck_ , he knew he shouldn’t have left it until the last minute to add phone credit. Great, just great – now Jess is going to think that the last message you wanted to leave her today was an unnecessary detailed description of your breakfast ( _they had unlimited bacon, Jess! Unlimited!)_ He shakes his head at himself, squeezing his eyes shut, ignoring the voice in his head that’s telling him that _you’re the dumbest boy in school, Nicholas_. The voice in his head usually sounds like Theodore K. Mullins, but this time it distinctly sounds like Schmidt. He doesn’t know whether to be horrified by that, or—nope, he’s definitely horrified by that. The last thing he needs is to hear Schmidt’s voice in his head, thanks. He hears enough from that idiot in real life already.

“You okay?” Reagan asks, brow furrowing slightly in concern as she looks at him. He nods in response, quickly dropping his hand as he registers that he’s still holding his phone to his ear even though the line has been dead for several seconds. He shoves his – useless, useless – phone back into his pocket and forces a smile onto his face, nodding. She meets his eyes and his smile widens in response (because, well, she’s pretty and she likes _him_ , old man Nick Miller), but then he’s suddenly shoved to the side by a flurry of people that are rushing past him, suitcases in tow and— _watch it, pal! Watch where you’re going_. Socalyalcon VI has been fun and all, aside from the whole Jessica Day disappearing act, but he’s more than ready to go back to the loft and collapse onto his bed, beer in hand.

* * *

By the time they get back to the loft, it’s late, and there’s not much else to do except for, well, collapse onto his bed, beer in hand. He’s fishing through his suitcase to dig out an old t-shirt to sleep in when his hands land on a familiar curved object instead. Suddenly, it all clicks and he knows exactly what he has to do: Jess mysteriously disappeared without saying goodbye, Cece is being evasive, everyone seems to be able to get into contact with Jess except for him and Reagan, drunk Jess said that she had left because she was sad, and…yes, Nick, it’s time to go into full Julius Pepperwood-mode. He can picture the pinboard he’s going to make already. He grins as he tugs the object free, shoving it lopsidedly on his head, then goes back to rummaging through his suitcase to find his Pepperwood sunglasses.

“Nice hat,” Reagan says from behind him, where she’s propped up by the pillows on his bed, watching him with a bemused expression on her face. “Are you planning on sleeping with that on?”

He turns to face her, grins wider, opens his mouth to say _why, thank you,_ and then registers Reagan’s carefully raised eyebrow as she stares at his head and…you’re an idiot, Nick. Well done, _buddy_. He feels his back heat up in embarrassment, hastily taking the cap off his head and throwing it across the room. By some sheer miracle, it ends up landing neatly in the trashcan, like one of those trickshot videos that Winston used to make him watch on a loop when they were younger and he was more focused on his life playing basketball than his life with a cat ( _not just a cat, Nick, he’s family_!)

Nick waits until early in the morning when he feels Reagan lean over and whisper in his ear that she’s going out on her morning run, before he rolls out of bed, rescuing the cap out of the trashcan. He shakes it off a couple of times and then proudly places the cap in its rightful place on his head. Time to get to work, Miller—

—except, he already has a pinboard from the first mystery he solved (also known as the mystery of the deer murderer, Edgar), but where on Earth is he supposed to get yarn from? He knows that Jess must have piles of it just across the hallway in her room, but her only house rule is _never touch my yarn_ and he’s not sure he should risk breaking her trust again, especially since the reason that he wants the yarn is to, well, make a pinboard about _her_. He’s very confident that she wouldn’t appreciate him going full Pepperwood about her, but, hey, if she’s not going to talk to him, he has no other choice.

In the end, he does the only thing that makes sense: he drags himself outside the loft to the nearest convenience store, tops up his phone and then texts…Jess. He keeps his Pepperwood disguise on throughout – can’t be too careful these days.

_Where do you buy yarn from? – Nick_

_Also, call me back? Have you lost my number or something? This is your roommate Nick, you know, the guy that lives across the hall from you._ – _Nick_

* * *

He can’t say he’s surprised when it’s been several hours later and he still hasn’t heard from Jess, but he’s disappointed all the same. He’s Nick Miller—no, _Julius Pepperwood_ , he’s a resourceful guy, and yes, Jess may be the biggest collector of yarn that he knows (which are words that ten years ago he would never believe would come out of his mouth – he didn’t know that yarn came in so many different colours until Jess walked into his life), but she’s not the only person that he knows that likes that sort of thing. Mind made up, he refocuses on the task at hand and does a quick Google search, feeling a surge of satisfaction run through his body as he finds what he’s looking for.

“Genzlinger? It’s Nick, uh, Nick Miller?” He says down the phone, suddenly feeling awkward as he realises how weird this must seem. It’s not like he had ever liked Genzlinger (and made damn sure that Genzlinger knew that) until the moment when he accidentally blurted out that Jess didn’t love him. He took it quite well, if he's honest, which makes Genzlinger an _okay_ guy in his books, he supposes and—focus, Miller.

“Jess’ roommate?”

They exchange pleasantries for a bit, Genzlinger telling him some _entirely_ unprompted story about how he saw a hedge the other day which looked like his ex-fiancé Jenn (Nick’s pretty sure he hears Genzlinger’s voice crack when he says her name and there might have even been a small sob—he determinedly ignores it and squeezes his eyes shut to stop himself from remembering what an ugly crier that guy is), and Nick’s moments away from hanging up and cursing the hell out of stupid _Genzlinger_ (really, Nick? What are you doing calling Genzlinger, of all people?) when Genzlinger suddenly blurts out an address.

“That’s where you want to go for the yarn,” he says, before returning back to his hedge story as if he had never stopped telling it. “You had to be there, it looked—it looked _just like her—_ ”

Nick scrambles to write down the address on a crumpled five dollar bill that he fishes out of his back pocket, flicking his eyes up towards the heavens to thank whatever alien lives up there, and then swiftly cuts Genzlinger off (he likes to think of himself as a relatively nice guy, but he’s not sorry about interrupting his story at all).

“—Sorry, Genz, got to go. I think my dad—no, _ma's_ calling."

He's always been a shitty liar.

* * *

He’s just about to get into his car and make his way to the _yarn store_ (no-one can ever find about this) when his phone beeps, just once. He pulls it out, squinting a little at the smudged screen. It’s just an address and she hasn’t signed the text (which he notes down in his mental detective notebook because Jess _always signs her texts_ ), but he knows who it’s from. He’s not at all surprised when the address on the screen matches the one that he managed to wring out of Genzlinger but _damn it,_ if he had just waited ten more minutes, he would have reached the same conclusion without having to live through a painful uncomfortable conversation. Damn you, Genzlinger. (Yeah, yeah, it’s not his fault, but still— _damn you, Genzlinger_ ).


	4. ma, jamie and adventures in yarn world

By the time he finally manages to make it to the yarn store ( _drive faster, pal, I don’t have all day_ ), he’s exhausted and kinda (okay, very) grumpy. He roughly jerks his car into a parking spot, quickly glances into the rear-view mirror to readjust his Pepperwood cap and sunglasses, before heading into the store. When he steps foot inside, he instantly remembers why he had always drawn the line at accompanying Jess on her craft runs, even though he’s always found it almost impossible to say no to her. The rules are simple in his head: he’ll happily (well, maybe not happily, but he’ll go if Jess is the one asking) tag along to impromptu drugstore trips and unnecessary lengthy detours to IKEA, but craft runs? Nope, no thank you. (“Please, Nick? I really, really need to stock up on some yarn!” Jess will ask, eyes wide as she looks up at him pleadingly. He'll rapidly look away by instinct to avoid looking into her eyes as he panic moonwalks away, “No, Jessica, I’m a _human man!_ ” He’s not proud of how often he resorts to panic moonwalking as a coping mechanism, but hey, he’s made it all the way to his thirties in one piece so he must be doing something right).

“Hi, welcome to Yarn World! Can I help you? Do you know what you’re looking for?” Nick turns, then lets out a small groan as he’s faced by an overly cheerful girl, who’s grinning at him brightly as if he’s about to save the entire world from an apocalypse. ( _Zombie_ apocalypse, preferably).

“Uh, I’m looking for yarn,” he manages to grumble out, then scratches his neck awkwardly as he registers his surroundings and sees the seemingly endless rows of shelves packed full with different balls of yarn. Congrats, Miller, you’re definitely in over your head this time.

“Well, if you’re looking for yarn, you’ve come to the right place! This _is_ Yarn World, after all,” she replies, and Nick grimaces because seriously? This place is called _Yarn World_? Nick Miller is in _Yarn World_? He’s a dead man if Winston or, god forbid, Coach find out about this. (Schimdt, he reckons, wouldn’t blink an eye – he would maybe even be proud of him.)

“What sort of yarn are you looking for? Material-wise, we have wool, cotton, synthetic, ribbon—”

“I don’t know, uh, wool?” He says faintly, though he’s not really listening, completely overwhelmed by the never-ending supplies of yarn he can see in front of him.

There are so many colours, and categories, and words that he’s never heard of before ( _what the hell is a boucl_ é _?_ ) _._ The girl beams up at him, then reaches out to pull the edge of his sleeve, dragging him towards a row of shelves on his left, and hey, lady, no-one gave you permission to do that; this is one of his nicest shirts! She continues to tug at him until he lets out a deep sigh, glancing up at the ceiling for a second in an effort to remain calm, before reluctantly following her and allowing her to lead them across the store.

“Perfect, so here we have your lamb’s wool, merino, Shetland, Icelandic—"

“—What would you recommend?” He asks, cutting in as she starts spouting off a bunch of words that are utterly meaningless to him (Iceland has their own wool?), tugging his arm free from her grasp and shoving both hands into his pockets.

She tilts her head at him, eyeing him up for a second, before a slow smile starts creeping over her face.

“Wait a second,” she says, holding a finger up at him, “are you—are you a _virgin_?”

Nick blinks, mouth falling open, gaping at her in horror.

“ _Knitting_ virgin!”

...Damn, Miller, what have you done to deserve this? You’re a good guy, you haven’t committed any (major) crimes, you pay (some) taxes.

“You know what?” He quickly says as the girl continues standing in front of him, positively _glowing_. “I think I’m good here. I feel very confident. I don’t need your help.”

She blinks a few times and for a horrifying second, Nick thinks that she might ignore his _clear signals_ and stick around, but then she gives him a slow nod, the light in her eyes dimming slightly. (He can see the hurt in her face and he feels like a bit of a jerk, but also, she most definitely deserves it.)

“Okay, sure,” she says, her voice a tad shaky, “let me know if you need my help, Mr…”

“Pepperwood,” he replies curtly, waiting until she’s given him a nod and started backing away from him before turning towards the shelves of yarn, his ears finally blessed with _silence_.

He’s perfectly capable of doing this himself; all he needs to do is pick out a ball of yarn, _any ball of yarn_ , and then get as far away from stupid Yarn World as humanly possible. It’s not rocket science.

…except, there are so many colours, and he knows that if Jess was here, she would be painstakingly looking through every single one. He grins to himself as he closes his eyes, picturing Jess holding up a ball of yarn (way too) close to her glasses so that she can inspect it properly and, wow, _get it together, Miller_ – this is for a pinboard that no-one’s ever going to see, especially Jess, so does it really matter which colour yarn you buy? He moves to pick the nearest yarn, which happens to be green, then shakes his head, putting it back and going for a red instead and—why his chest aching?

Nick takes a deep breath, quickly pulling his phone out of his pocket and pressing 1) on his speed dial. He’s feeling suddenly out of his depth, seconds away from running out of the store and to the nearest bar where he can drown his sorrows and forget about this entire experience.

“Nicky! Where are you?”

“Hey, Ma,” he says, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes, “I’m—I’m actually in the yarn store.”

He squints as he can hear scuffling in the background and the sound of some (not so) hushed voices.

"...I’m on speaker, aren’t I?”

“Why are you at a _yarn store_ , Law School?” Jamie pipes up, and Nick doesn’t think he’s ever wanted the world to swallow him up more than in this very moment. “Did you forget about everything that I taught you?”

“You didn’t teach me anything and I—I didn’t call to talk to you, Jamie!” He half-shouts down the phone, feeling his cheeks get uncomfortably warm.

There’s more scuffling, and then suddenly the line goes quiet and Nick remembers how to breathe again.

“Sorry about that, Nicky, you know how he gets,” he hears, instantly calmer at the sound of his mom’s voice, “so, why are you calling?”

“I need to buy some yarn,” he explains slowly, hoping that she’ll have the answers to a question that he’s not fully formed in his head. “But there’s just— _so many options_.”

“For the Spanish girl?”

He blinks, wondering how on Earth she knew that.

“I—She’s not—well, yeah, in a way, I guess?”

“You’ll figure it out, Nicky, you always do.”

In the end, he takes a deep breath, scans the rows with as much (fake) confidence as he can muster and picks the bluest blue he can find.

* * *

It’s about midday when he stumbles back into 4D, his arms filled with pools of yarn. He dimly thinks that he probably went a bit overboard, but there’s no way in hell that he’s ever stepping foot into Yarn World again so…better safe than sorry. He’s about to turn the corner into the corridor and start setting up his supplies for his pinboard when he hears an audible gasp from behind him.

“Nick, what are you holding? Is that _yarn_?”

He closes his eyes, curses under his breath, and then slowly turns to face Schmidt—except it’s not just Schmidt, but it’s Cece too. Both of them look at him with their eyebrows raised, then at each other, then back at him again.

“Whaaaaat,” Cece blurts out, eyes wide, dragging out the word.

Nick quickly turns his back on them and walks into his room without another word, slamming the door behind him. Yeah, he very much does not want to explain this turn of events to them. Also, why are they even in the loft? Don't they have their own house now?

* * *

_Jess, I know you’re in Portland trying to move on from Nick so I’m really sorry for bringing this up, but…we have a situation. Nick bought yarn! Nick Miller bought YARN! By himself! For a project! That no-one’s forcing him to do! – Cece xox_


	5. trip down memory lane and an impromptu loft meeting

Okay, let’s get to work, Miller. He dumps the pools of yarn he bought from Yarn World unceremoniously on his bed, before walking into his closet and rummaging around until he finds the pinboard he has stashed away in there (and hey, look at that, the meat he’s been drying finally looks…dry!) He tugs the board out, ignoring the fact that the motion leaves his meat hanging dangerously close to his (only) blazer, carrying it over to his desk and propping it up. Slumping himself into his desk chair, Nick opens his laptop up, closes the seventy-five tabs he currently has open (the internet’s a wild place these days, kids) and scrolls to his photos folder. Can’t have a pinboard without photos of the subject, after all.

Nick starts browsing through the photos of the – mostly stupid – loft antics that he has saved on his laptop, grimacing as he realises just how many of them are either selfies of Schimdt in different suits (which, honestly, all look the same to him – Schimdt got ripped off, _bad_ ) or selfies of Winston and his damn cat. He’s not a particularly sentimental guy and he probably - definitely - wouldn’t have kept any of these photos if Schimdt hadn’t made him swear on the life of his first unborn child that he would “cherish” these memories of "bros being bros”. Schimdt can be absolutely terrifying when he wants to be and, well, he wasn’t about to risk the life of little Reginald Veljohnson Miller over something as simple as just…pressing save (on a weekly basis, because it turns out that Schimdt has a whole lot of memories he wants cherished). He’s grateful for it now though, because yeah, whilst 90% of the photos are of Schimdt, Winston or Furguson, the other 10% have Jess in them. He scrolls through the most recent photos of Jess: a candid of Jess eating cereal in her pink robe at the kitchen counter, a series of photos of Jess on the day she came back from her first day as Principal, proudly wearing her Principal blazer (the second one that he bought her, not the one which now has more than two sleeves), Jess squished in between all of the guys on the couch on one of the loft’s Friday evening movie nights, beaming brightly at the camera. He scrolls back even further, a smile twisting at his lips as he continues to go down memory lane (and okay, maybe Schimdt was onto something with this whole cherishing memories thing) – except, then he’s suddenly scrolling way back to when they were kids, and together, and life was simpler.

He pauses at a really old photo of the two of them, where they're clearly not aware that they’re having their photo taken (he’s going to have to have a word with Schimdt about all these photos he seems to be creeping around taking – there’s a little thing called _boundaries_ , buddy). Past Nick is lying on the couch in his usual spot, feet casually propped up on the coffee table, whilst Past Jess is curled up next to him, head resting on his shoulder, as she watches whatever’s playing on the TV. Past Nick isn’t watching though, no, instead he’s just staring down at the top of Jess’ head, a soft smile on his face, looking as if he can't quite believe the situation he's in. During their relationship, he always felt like the luckiest guy alive. Present Nick runs a hand across his face as he stares at his younger self, his chest suddenly aching. He knows that everything that happened in the end was his fault, that he screwed up (badly), and he knows that they’ve both moved on and that door is firmly closed, but he…he really did love Jess. Like he told (that _jerk_ ) Doctor Sam, what they had, it was crazy love. He still loves her, in a way; sure, yeah, he has a girlfriend and she’s dated other guys, but she’s always going to be his best friend, and he’s always going to drop everything for her, and _why is she ignoring him_? Nick shakes his head hard, just once, refocusing on the task at hand with renewed determination. He needs to get to the bottom of this and figure out what’s going on with Jess.

Scrolling all the way back to the most recent photos, he clicks on the photo of Jess in her blazer grinning up at the camera, printing it out. He grabs a pair of scissors, starting to snip around it as best as he can (he’s not great at crafts so he tries to go slowly because, well, he doesn’t want to accidentally cut off part of her face). He doesn’t get very far though, because suddenly there’s a loud knock on his door, followed by a whole stream of knocks.

“Go away, Schimdt! I’m busy,” he yells, pausing his cutting and quickly scanning the room, doing a hasty calculation about how fast he can hide all the incriminating evidence before Schimdt inevitably ignores his words and barges straight in.

“Nicholas, I’m coming in,” Schimdt announces after less than a second, and Nick swallows hard, jumping to his feet and shoving the half-cut photo of Jess underneath his laptop, slamming the lid of his laptop shut.

“I don’t care if you’re not decent, you still haven’t shown me what’s in your pants and I’m supposed to be your closest friend—”

Nick turns around, leaning back against the table as Schmidt walks in, Cece in tow.

“What are you making there, Nicholas?” Schmidt asks, eyeing him up, glancing at the blue yarn all over his bed (and, okay, floor) to the pinboard he’s got on his desk.

He purses his lips, making very sure to keep his back firmly facing the wall, both to keep his laptop hidden from view, but also to hide his already uncomfortably damp back. He shrugs as indifferently as he can manage as he raises his eyes to meet their wandering gazes.

“Nothing,” he says, hoping that they’ll drop it, though he knows that they won’t. “Just thought I’d, uh, I’d do some crafting…?”

Schmidt and Cece exchange looks, before Cece lets out a small sigh, nodding just once. Nick stares at them both, not entirely sure what is going on, but before he knows it, Schmidt has lunged towards him, tackling him to the floor, whilst Cece stealthily moves behind him, opening his laptop screen.

“Get off me, you idiot! Schmidt, I swear, if you don’t get off me right now, I’m going to—”

“—Nick, why are you cutting up photos of Jess?”

His blood runs cold, and he feels Schmidt tense up on top of him, freezing. He takes the opportunity to quickly shove him off, getting up from the floor and hastily brushing off his jeans (that _idiot_ ). Cece’s standing by his desk, holding up the half-cut photo of Jess that he had been working on, eyeing him with an unreadable expression. It’s terrifying, if he’s honest, and he has a strong urge to just drop to the ground and curl up into a ball until they leave. Schmidt’s on his feet now too, eyebrows raised, and he looks like he’s about to say something but ultimately doesn’t. Instead, he just licks his lips, tilts his head, and then says:

“That's it, Nick, I’m calling a loft meeting.”

* * *

The so-called ‘loft meeting’ isn’t so much of a loft meeting, seeing as Winston and Aly are both at work and Jess is, well, wherever Jess is (Portland, _apparently_ ). They manage to get hold of Winston on his phone though, patching him in on speakerphone, and summarising the events of the day so far. Nick doesn’t say a word throughout it, arms crossed, because now he’s actually kinda, no, _very_ pissed that they interrupted him. He doesn’t have time for this nonsense: Julius Pepperwood has work to do!

“Nick, why are you making a pinboard about Jess?”

Nick shrugs, arms still crossed, digging his fingernails into the palm of his hands.

“No reason,” he says.

Come on, Miller, you don’t have to tell them, all you have to do is keep your mouth shut, but oh, Schmidt’s staring at you and Cece won’t look away and, “I just—Jess isn’t—Jess won’t pick up my calls, and I don’t know why, and I really have to speak to her, okay?”

Nice one, Miller, _real smooth_.

There’s a pause, where Schmidt, Cece and Winston all take the time to digest his confession. Schmidt then grabs the phone off from where it’s sitting in the middle of the table and turns his back to Nick, leaning over the phone as he starts speaking in hushed whispers to Winston and Cece. (“I’m _right here_ , I can hear ya!”)

He falls silent as he hears snippets of their conversation, not quite understanding what’s going on, but filing it away into his mental evidence bank – who knows, he might need it later.

“Do you think we should just…tell him?”

“No, _no_ , we can’t.”

“But the man’s making a pinboard! A _pinboard_! With yarn!”

“Schimdt, babe, no, you can’t tell him. I know he’s your best friend, but you can’t—”

Nick blinks hard, frowning.

“Tell me what?!”

Schmidt jumps at the sound of his voice, and it would almost be comical if Nick wasn't confused as hell right now.

“What can’t you tell me?”

He stares Schmidt down as hard as he can, and he watches as Schmidt opens his mouth and closes it several times, a multitude of expressions running over his face.

“I can’t,” he eventually says, resignedly, eyes almost sad. “I can’t.”

Nick frowns even harder until his face begins to ache a bit, his head suddenly throbbing as a headache starts to set in.

“What the hell is going on? What are you all keeping from me? I just—”

“—hey, man, sorry. I got to go. The perp’s about to get away and Aly’s going to kick my ass if I let him escape,” Winston cuts in, breathing hard down the phone, and the three of them stare at each other, drama momentarily forgotten, because, wait, Winston was chasing down a perp the whole time he was on the call?!

“For the record though, Nick, I don’t see an issue. I’m a cop, a pinboard makes total sense.”

The line goes dead, and Nick allows a slight smirk of satisfaction at Winston’s words. Ol' Nick Miller’s not _crazy_ – pinboards are the best way to solve mysteries! Schmidt goes back to eyeing him up as he shoves the phone back into the middle of the table, steely determination on his face, and Nick can’t help but cower slightly in his seat. He’s thankfully saved from further interrogation by the sound of the door opening, breathing out a sigh of relief as he sees Reagan walk in—

“Reagan, thank the heavens! Maybe you can convince your stupid idiot of a boyfriend that he’s going insane. He went out to buy yarn and he’s making a _pinboard about Jess_!”

Reagan blinks, her face expressionless as she walks over and drops into the seat next to him.

“So?” She asks, with a shrug, leaning over to press her lips against his cheek. “I don’t care; as long as he keeps that yarn far away from me, I’m cool with it.”

Schimdt and Cece exchange looks again (and ugh, they need to stop doing that because it makes him feel even more like he’s being left out and he hates it). Cece looks at Reagan with a calculating look in her eyes, slowly rubbing her hands together, and this—this isn't going to be good.

“You’re telling me that you’re okay with Nick making a board about Jess?” Reagan shrugs again, giving a nod, and he waves a hand at the two of them dismissively because, yeah, _it’s no big deal_. “And Nick, you’d be okay if Reagan spent her entire day making a board about, say, Winston?”

Nick swallows thickly at that, forces himself to give them a nod, except he’s suddenly very uncomfortable, squirming slightly in his seat. Yeah, _obviously_ , there’s nothing going on between Winston and Reagan (he’s never seen Winston as happy and himself as he is with Aly), but he’s not sure he would be entirely okay if she decided to devote a day to creating a board about Winston. It’s not really the same situation as what he’s doing about Jess because, well, him and Jess are way better friends than Reagan and Winston, but...Jess _is_ his ex-girlfriend and Reagan—Reagan _should_ care, shouldn’t she?

“He says he’s cool,” Reagan cuts in, interrupting his thoughts, shifting her seat closer and looping an arm around his waist. “Look, Nick and I have our own thing, okay? Now, will you please clear the room so I can say hello to my boyfriend properly?”

Schmidt and Cece stand up, glancing between the two of them just once, before heading out the front door.

“You’re an idiot, Nick!” Schmidt calls as he slams the door shut behind him. “Don’t wake me up if you need to borrow a blazer again—actually, no, I take that back, you can still wake me up anytime you need fashion advice, but, but—you’re an idiot.”

He’s not crazy, right? _She should care._


	6. tetanus shots and doctor sam

_How is he doing? - Jess xox_

_Actually, don't tell me. The whole point of this trip was so that I would stop thinking about him! - Jess xox_

_Babe, maybe you should just talk to him? You can't stay away forever... I miss you! - Cece xox_

_I miss you too! But...this is just something I have to do._ _FaceTime me later? - Jess xox_

_Of course. - Cece xox_

_...and for the record, he definitely misses you too. - Cece xox_

* * *

As hard as Nick tries, he just can’t get Reagan’s indifference about his (still bare, _thanks Schmidt)_ pinboard out of his head. They’ve moved into his bedroom now and he’s slowly cutting out photos of Jess for his pinboard, whilst Reagan lies on her front on his bed, idly flicking through a magazine as he works. True to her word, she really doesn’t seem to care that he’s focused on making this board about Jess, even going as far as to offer suggestions about which photos he should include. (“ _Definitely_ that one,” she had said, leaning over his shoulder and pointing at a photo of Jess dressed up all fancy, a swipe of shoe polish around her eyes and everything. It’s a nice photo: the dress that Jess is wearing looks real good on her and it’s pitch black, which he’s always thought helps make her eyes look extra blue—but then Reagan pats him on the shoulder and winks at him, and Nick suddenly remembers that she hooked up with Cece in the past. He’s suddenly very uncomfortable, shifting in his seat with wide eyes, and he hastily clicks next, trying his best to ignore the sound of Reagan chuckling behind him in response.)

Part of him is screaming at him to suggest that they do another activity together or just tell her to sit in the living room whilst he works because this entire situation is just _plain weird_. He stops himself from voicing any of that though, digging his nails into his thigh, because he’s well aware that would be a move worthy of the douchebag jar and he’s not that kinda guy. The thing is, he finds Reagan so impossibly difficult to read that it borders on frustrating; it’s ironic, really, because the fact that she wasn’t the sort of person who liked talking about her feelings was what drew him to her in the first place (as well as, you know, the fact that she’s also undeniably hot in a way that sometimes makes him lose his train of thought halfway through a sentence). This is the type of relationship that he always thought that he wanted: one with less talking and more doing. (Not doing as in _doing each other_ (though obviously, he would never complain about that), but doing as in just being happy in each other’s company without having to tell each other every single little detail about their respective lives. Lately, he’s not so sure if this is what he really wants out of a significant other, the first seeds of doubt starting to emerge from deep down, and he feels like an absolute schmuck for even letting himself think it. Reagan is beautiful, genuinely makes him laugh and her heart’s in the right place, but…he has absolutely no idea what’s going on in her head 95% of the time and he never feels completely relaxed around her. Maybe that’s normal though (if you never get relaxed, you never get bored. That’s a saying, right? If not, it should be) and maybe this is just him trying to sabotage the good things in his life in classic Nick Miller style. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Nick shakes his head once, realising that he’s been lost in his head for the past few minutes, frozen in action and looking straight into Photo Jess’ piercing blue eyes. He stares harder at Photo Jess, desperately wishing Real Jess was across the hall and not in Portland, because he would really like to get her opinion on whether she thinks it’s normal for Reagan not to be bothered _at all_ about the fact that he’s currently – very carefully – cutting out photos of his ex-girlfriend right in front of her. Jess always knows the right thing to do and say. (Except, yeah, if Jess was across the hall, he supposes he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.)

“Nick, you’re bleeding,” Reagan says, her voice laced with a hint of concern as she lifts herself off the bed and moves over to stand next to him, prying the scissors from his hand.

He blinks, glancing down and realising that she’s right and he is indeed bleeding, his other hand moving to clench his palm as he feels a dull pain start to kick in. Reagan examines the rusty scissors that he was using with interest, holding it away from her white shirt; he only owns one pair of scissors and he uses it for everything, never bothering to clean it in between uses, and yeah, okay, he kind of regrets Past Nick’s laziness right now.

“When’s the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

Nick shrugs, mind blank.

“Not sure I’ve ever had one, but it’s no big deal, I’ll be fine,” he admits, before moving to gently take the scissors back from her.

She doesn’t release them from her grip though; instead, she pushes them behind her back and reaches out with her free hand to grab his wrist.

“You should get a tetanus shot,” she says seriously, her fingernails digging into his skin in a way that’s far from pleasant.

“Nick, don’t be an idiot about this,” she continues, her words hitting him right in the chest.

His arms drop loosely to the side, pain in his palm forgotten, replaced by an ache deep within. It’s not the first time that a girl he’s dating has called him an idiot, but it hurts all the same. Nick Miller’s not an idiot, he just…he just has his own opinions about things, that’s all. (Would an idiot be able to pass the _bar_? Don’t think so.)

“Okay, okay, I’ll go to the hospital,” Nick eventually says, voice a little flat, gaze falling slightly to avoid looking directly into her eyes. “Are you coming?”

There’s a pause, and he glances back up again, watching as Reagan eyes him up, licking her lips, expression unreadable.

“Do you… _want_ me to come?”

Nick blinks, hesitates. He presses his lips together, suddenly unsure. It feels distinctly like a trap and he’s suddenly panicking because he doesn’t know what the right answer here is. In his head, he doesn’t think it really matters either way: sure, it’d be nice to have some company, especially since him and Reagan haven’t spent that much time together lately, both of them busy with work and impromptu trips to Yarn World, but, on the other hand, well, he’s an adult man and he can get a shot by himself.

“Yes?” Nick tries, but her expression remains blank, staring at him. “Uh, no?”

Reagan gives him a small smile, leans over to press her lips gently against his, hands smoothing over his forehead, then pats him on the shoulder and sends him on his way. _Huh_.

* * *

Nick tries to call Jess as he’s in the Uber ( _alone_ ), feeling like he might be on the edge of spiralling. By this point, he expects his call to go straight to voicemail and he’s ready with a message as soon as he hears the beep. It’s a far cry from actually being able to talk to Jess, but it still makes him feel a whole lot better. He can’t be 100% sure if Jess is listening to any of the many voicemails that he’s left her, but he’d be willing to bet his left arm that she is. It’s Jess, after all.

_Hey Jess, it’s Nick again_. _I don’t know why you’re not picking up my calls, but I’m having a problem and I really—I really need to talk to someone about it. I miss ya, you clown. – Nick_

* * *

As Nick stumbles out of the car and walks in the direction of the hospital doors (shuddering slightly as he does it; he’s always hated hospitals), he suddenly realises what a huge, devastating mistake he’s made by asking the driver to take him to the nearest hospital. There’s an unpleasantly familiar figure standing outside of the doors, leaning against the wall as he prods at his phone. Nick panics at the sight, immediately turning around to ask the Uber driver to take him to the _second_ nearest hospital, but it’s too late and the driver’s already gone. _Nothing you can do now, Miller, just…sneak past him, Pepperwood style._ He breathes out slowly, tilting his head to one side and then the other, cracking his knuckles once. He can do this; he can make it through the front door without being punched in the throat (again). Nick shuffles slowly towards the entrance, keeping his face hidden as he attempts to creep past, but a wrist suddenly grabs at his arm, tugging him backwards.

“Nick?”

Nick freezes, lets out a string of creative curse words as he groans inwardly, slowly turning around to face one of the few people on this planet he truly _hates_ with every fibre of his body.

“How’s Jess?”

He silently lifts his gaze to meet Doctor Sam’s, Sam’s words hitting a nerve and making his heart twist uncomfortably in his chest: you see, the thing is, well, Nick doesn’t know how Jess is right now because she’s not responding to any of his attempts to get into contact with her, but he’s not going to admit that to Sam of all people, that _dumbass_.

“You might not believe me, but I do care about her,” Sam continues, his tone almost defensive (and hey, pal, you broke up with her _twice,_ you don’t get to go around asking questions about Jess!) “Things between us are cool: she couldn’t marry me and I realised I was in love with my best friend so—"

“—wait a second, marry? You asked Jess to _marry ya?_ ”

Sam shrugs at him, slowly crossing his arms, the action making Nick glance down out of instinct. He immediately notices the shiny wedding band on his ring finger and… _interesting_. Doctor Sam’s no longer a free man. Nick’s mind starts to race with a hundred and one possible scenarios as he realises that although he knew that Sam had broken up with Jess because he was in love with his best friend, Jess had never told him exactly how it had all gone down. A frown crosses his face, a wave of extreme guilt starting to flood over him as he involuntarily begins to recall the order of events that had happened back then: she had broken up with Sam the night before Schmidt and Cece’s wedding…and then Reagan had shown up out of the blue and had asked him to go to New Orleans with her…Jess had convinced him that he should go for it with Reagan (“you’re incredible, Nick!”) and…god, Jess had probably felt like she had to hide what she was going through so that he didn’t feel like he had to stay, especially since he was so excited about his new relationship. Nicholas Miller, you’re a real jerk for never asking Jess if she wanted to talk about it; you didn’t even call her much when you were in New Orleans, distracted by the fact that you’d finally gotten together with Reagan and she actually _liked ya_ , and being so inspired by the New Orleans’ scene that you spent almost all your waking hours when you weren't with Reagan writing. No wonder Jess was acting so squirrely around you when you got back from New Orleans, you idiot. Maybe she’s still mad at you and that’s why she ran away to Portland and isn't answering your calls? …well, probably not, because it was a while ago, but still. Maybe. Nick sighs deeply, rubbing a hand slowly across his face, his shoulders slumping as he suddenly feels an overwhelming surge of exhaustion set into his bones, desperately wishing Jess would just answer the phone so that he can speak to her and make things right.

“Okay, as much as I would love to continue this…whatever this is, I have to go and scrub up for surgery,” Sam says, breaking his train of thought, making sure to shove roughly at Nick’s shoulder as he walks past.

Nick turns slowly, staring at his retreating back, before finding some energy somewhere deep (very, very deep) inside of him, running a couple of steps to catch up with him.

“Hey, Doctor Sam, slow down,” he calls out, hands immediately going up to protect his face as a clearly irritated Sam turns around, expression disgruntled, looking suspiciously like he wants to punch him in the throat again.

“Why couldn’t she marry you?”

Sam doesn’t say anything at first, just eyes him up. The idea of Jess marrying Doctor Sam doesn’t sit right with him at all (and he swears it’s not just because he really, truly, hates this guy). Jess deserves the best, and Sam is far from that; Jess might have forgiven Sam for filing a restraining order against her, but Nick never has. He can’t fathom why anyone would want a restraining order against Jessica Day, and he had always secretly resented the fact that Jess had decided to overlook it and give him another chance. Doctor Sam didn’t deserve her the first time, and he _definitely_ didn’t deserve her the second time. Sam clears his throat just once and then looks him straight in the eye as he speaks.

“Because of you, Nick. She couldn’t marry me _because of you_.”


	7. scaring off racoons and drunk dialling exes

Nick swallows thickly, brow furrowed, mouth falling open slightly in surprise. He’s not sure what he expected Sam to say, but this was not it. _Jess couldn’t marry Sam because…of him?_ What did that even mean?

“Because of _me_?” Nick echoes slowly, hesitantly, gaping up at Sam. “I don’t—She couldn’t—What?”

Sam silently stares at him for a second and then just rolls his eyes, giving him a shrug.

“I think that’s a question for Jess, not me,” he eventually says.

Sam stares at him for another second, before shaking his head and turning to walk briskly away down the hospital corridor, disappearing into the crowd of patients and doctors.

“Have a nice life, Nick! …Or don’t; if I’m honest, I couldn’t care less.”

Nick continues staring ahead, transfixed, even minutes after Sam had walked away. His mind is swirling in confusion, a million thoughts running through his head (and only one of them is about how much he _hates_ Doctor Sam: only one!) Sure, everyone knew that he didn’t like Sam (at all), but if Jess had decided that Sam was the guy for her and wanted to marry him, he wouldn’t have stopped her. He knows he’s been less than friendly to several of the guys that she’s dated in the past (it’s not his fault: Russell aside, Jess has odd taste in men, himself very much included), but all he’s ever wanted for Jess is a guy that’s crazy about her and for her to be truly happy; if that guy had ended up being Doctor Sam, well, he would have forced himself to live with it, smile brightly through their wedding, be the best godfather to their children imaginable and—okay, getting off track, Miller. Nick frowns, pressing his lips together, deep in thought as he replays Sam’s words in his head on loop. _She couldn’t marry me because of you. She couldn’t marry me because of you. She couldn’t marry me because of you._ Did Jess think she couldn’t marry Sam because of _his_ relationship with Sam? If so, then, Nick Miller, you can tip whatever little life savings you have (or, okay, whatever assets you’re stashing in your box in your closet) straight into the douchebag jar.

“Hey, buddy.” Nick jumps as a hand lands on his shoulder a little too hard, the pressure jolting him out of his thoughts. He glances up to see Outside Dave standing behind him, looking far into the distance. “Look at us, together again.”

“What? We were never together?”

“What’s wrong? You look like you just saw a ghost and my children tell me I’m a good listener,” Dave says, pulling out a handful of rocks from his pocket (with…are those _eyes_? Wow, Outside Dave is into some weird stuff) and brandishing them in front of Nick’s face. “Tell him, kids.”

“Uh, I’m good, thanks,” he replies, quickly moving away, head still swirling.

Outside Dave thankfully doesn’t follow, just shrugs his shoulders once and walks back out of the hospital, humming happily as he goes. Nick shakes his head hard, momentarily wondering if he just imagined that (he’s imagined weirder things; Sleeping Nick is a whole different person), and then queues up to get a tetanus shot. He continues to replay Sam’s words in his head, over and over, struggling to figure out exactly what he meant (and, more importantly, how to fix it so that Jess will come home and life can go back to normal). He’s so distracted that he only grumbles weakly when the hospital tries to charge him for the shot (“Hey, I’m a starving bartender – slash – writer! Do ya _want_ me to get tetanus?”), which is really quite an impressive feat to say the least.

* * *

As soon as he gets out of the hospital, he calls an Uber and goes straight to the park bench. Tran’s already there, as always, and…look at that, there’s that racoon Tran mentioned the other day perched in his spot. He yells at the racoon to _move it, pal_ , _this is my magical friend_ , _not yours_ , waves his arms manically in an attempt to scare it away, but the racoon stays put, just staring up at him. What a dumb raccoon. He’s seconds away from losing it and having a meltdown because yeah, he’s had a pretty confusing hour (thanks Doctor Sam, you jerk), when Tran just turns to look at the racoon, giving him his trademark smile. The racoon instantly jumps off the bench and hurries away, and _whoa,_ wait a second, can Tran speak to animals? He always knew that guy was magical.

Nick carefully shuffles onto the park bench, glancing left and right as he does so to prepare himself in case the racoon suddenly comes back and tries to ambush him. Tran smiles widely at him as he approaches, reaching for his hands and pulling him forward until he’s safely in his usual seat. He takes a deep breath to try and settle his thoughts before retelling the story, rubbing a hand across his face tiredly as he does so.

“—Sam said that Jess couldn’t marry him _because of me_ , but what the hell is that supposed to mean? Did Jess think that she couldn’t do it because then Sam and I would have to learn to live together? Because I would have, I swear; she’s my best friend! If she truly wanted to marry him, I would have supported it. I just—you know—” He breaks off, pausing to collect his thoughts.

The mere idea that Jess felt like she couldn’t marry Sam because of him, ol’ Nick Miller, it just—was he really that bad of a friend? Tran gives him an encouraging smile, pats his hand once, and Nick takes a deep breath and continues.

“Jess deserves the best,” he starts slowly, speaking as honestly as he knows how to. “I’d do anything for her if it made her happy…even if it meant I’d have to see Doctor Sam every day.”

Tran nods approvingly, before tilting his head to the side, giving him a questioning look, his hand still on top of his. Nick stares back, pressing his lips together, and…yeah, okay, Tran, I suppose you’re right and there is another way that Sam’s words could be interpreted, but that is most definitely not what Sam was alluding to. That door is closed, firmly shut, locked, key swallowed by a rampant dinosaur, everything. 

Clean break.

(Sometimes you don't get another chance to fix the mistakes.)

It’s maybe the first time that talking to Tran hasn’t done anything to lift the fog that’s rapidly building inside his head and so, in the end, he does what he does best: he heads straight to the ( _their_ ) bar, gets drunk, and dials his exes. He knows it’s a mistake as soon as he gulps down his first sip of beer, but with all the awkward tension growing between him and Reagan lately, Doctor Sam’s cryptic words and Jess’ continued refusal to talk to him, well, he can’t think straight and the only way out is alcohol.

* * *

He calls Caroline first; as it turns out, even if he’s deleted her number from his phone, he still has her number saved in the phone book in his head. Old habits die hard. Caroline doesn’t answer though, her number going straight to her voicemail, so he leaves her a slurred message about the racoon that was in his spot on the park bench today. (She listens to it the next morning, blocks his number and thinks _fuck you, Nick Miller_ ).

Nick tries Jess next, and again, and again, and again, until—

“Nick?”

He grins widely as he swallows another sip of his beer, holding his phone up in victory.

“Jessica! Jessica Day! You remember me!”

“Of course I remember you, Nick, why wouldn’t—”

There’s a pause, the sound of someone shuffling on the other end, and Nick just continues drinking, grinning happily. He’s reached Jess! Jessica Christopher Day! He can’t quite remember why he should be happy about this, brain more than a bit fuzzy by this point, but he knows that he should be so he raises his arms in celebration again.

“You’re really drunk right now, aren’t you? I’m guessing you’re not going to remember this tomorrow.”

“Nope, no, I am not, nope,” he says, then, “hey, Jess, I saw a racoon in my spot in the park today! It was sitting near Tran and everything.”

He hears a soft chuckle from the other end, grins a bit wider because it’s Jess and _she gets it_. She understands.

“Do you want to hear what else happened today?”

“Sure, Nicholas,” she says slowly, her voice soothing even over the phone, and he thinks if he squeezes his eyes shut hard enough, he can smell the fruity shampoo that she uses.

He squeezes his eyes shut until the sides of his face start to hurt, then realises he should be talking right now and starts rambling, words spilling from his mouth involuntarily.

“I cut myself with scissors! Reagan made me go to the hospital to get a tetanus shot and I didn’t really want to go, but I did, and I bumped into Doctor Sam. You know how much I’ve always hated that guy—”

“—He didn’t punch you again, did he?”

“No,” he says, then shakes his head, frowning in confusion, the events of this morning suddenly vivid in his mind.

In a way, he guesses Doctor Sam did punch him, just…in the brain. He thinks he would have preferred being punched in the face again over this. Maybe.

“Well, he kinda punched me. He—Sam said that you couldn’t marry him _because of me_.”

The line falls silent until all he can hear is the sound of Jess breathing, and it’s fast, faster than his…which doesn’t make much sense to him because out of the two of them, he’s undoubtedly the more unfit one. He doesn’t give it too much thought though, suddenly overwhelmed with an urge to tell her everything that’s been going on in his head since he left the hospital.

“I just—Jessica, I want you to know that I’d be okay if you married Sam, you know that, right? I mean, I don’t like the guy, but I’d be okay with it. I’d support it.”

The line remains silent for a few seconds until Nick’s not even sure Jess is still there. He brings the phone close towards his mouth, seconds away from yelling her name down it, when he hears Jess speak again. Her voice is quiet, distant, serious, and he instantly feels like he’s said the wrong thing…but what? He—He was trying to make things right! He was trying to fix it! He was trying to get her to come back home!

“You’d be…okay if I married Sam?”

“Yes! That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” he says, though now he’s confused himself, her reaction not at all in line with what he had expected. “You’re my best friend, Jess; I want you to be happy.”

There’s another pause.

“I know, Nick,” Jess tells him, but her voice still doesn’t sound anything like the Jess he knows. It makes him frown, rub at his eyes, wondering how he could have possibly made things worse, desperately regretting the fact that he’s far from sober in this moment and he can’t find the right words.

“Look, I—I have to go, okay? Get home safe.”

* * *

_Jess, it’s Nick. I can’t remember what I said to you last night, but I’m sure it was stupid and I’m really sorry. I just—I had a bad day, and I shouldn’t have called. Not that I didn’t want to, because I did, but I shouldn’t have called when I was drunk. I wish you’d call me back; the loft’s not the same without ya._


	8. drug parties, surprise promotions and $300 raffle prizes

_I spoke to Nick last night… – Jess xox_

_You did? How did that go? – Cece xox_

_He was drunk, and…he said he’d be okay if I married Sam. He said he’d support it. – Jess xox_

_Oh babe, are you okay? Call me if you need to. – Cece xox_

_I’ll be fine. I know I can’t ignore him forever, but I guess I have my answer now. He just doesn’t feel the same way. I need to move on. – Jess xox_

* * *

Nick wakes up with a pounding headache, opening his eyes a sliver and then immediately closing them again as his senses are suddenly invaded by a harsh beam of sunlight streaming through his window. He turns onto his front, burying his face into his pillow, groaning. His memories of last night are blurry to say the least: he knows that he went straight to the bar after talking to Tran about what Sam said, vaguely remembers asking Big Bob to pour him (a whole string of) beers and—oh _fuck_ , he called Jess, didn’t he? He groans again, lifting his head off his pillow just enough to slam it back down. He can’t remember exactly what he had said on the phone, his mind foggy, but he knows Drunk Nick enough to know that he can't be trusted.

“—What happened yesterday? Are you okay?”

Nick slowly turns to the side, blearily cracking open one eye to see a blurry Reagan kneeling on the floor, tying up the laces on her trainers. He opens the other eye too until he can see her clearly, and he faintly hears Jess’ voice in the back of his head. _Have you talked to Reagan about this? I bet she’d be awesome._ He slowly lifts himself onto one elbow to meet her gaze, her eyes tinged with a hint of concern as she stares back at him. Okay, this is good. Just get it all out, Miller; you’ll feel better after. Maybe.

Rubbing a hand over his eyes tiredly, he forces himself to take a deep breath and swallow down the looming sense of anxiety that he had managed to cover up yesterday with alcohol. He tries to focus enough to tell her about his run in with Sam (that _jerk_ ) and that he doesn’t understand what Sam meant when he said that Jess couldn’t marry him because of _him_ , but instead, all that comes out is,

“So, yesterday, I went to the park to see Tran because I was confused about some things and there—there was a racoon in my spot! But, before that, well, I went to hospital like you said, and I bumped into Doctor Sam—”

Reagan gives him a weird look, standing up and brushing herself off (can’t be too careful, this is _his_ bedroom, after all).

“—Can we do this later?” She interrupts, one eyebrow raised. “Just, I—I kinda want to get this run in before work.”

Nick pauses, the corners of his mouth turning downwards. Now that he’s psyched himself up to talk about everything, he has an overwhelming urge to just get all the words out. His heart is beating fast, breathing uneven. Reagan’s foot is twitching though, starting to tap impatiently on the floor, so instead, he rubs a hand roughly over his face, forcing the words threatening to spill out back down. He takes a deep, steadying breath.

"Sure, uh, let’s go out for dinner tonight? My treat.”

“I can’t. I have a work thing,” she says, shooting him an apologetic smile, before gesturing at the piles of yarn lying haphazardly across his room. “But…why don’t you order some takeout and finish that poster for Jess you were working on yesterday?”

He glances in the direction she’s gesturing in and yeah, okay, he guesses that’s a good way to spend the evening as any. He does need to make this pinboard (it’s not a poster; what is this, amateur hour? Julius Pepperwood is a seasoned professional, thank you very much) and he’s been wanting some time alone to get it done and figure everything out.

“We’re good here?”

Nick shifts his gaze back to meet Reagan’s eyes, nodding, the edges of his mouth crinkling up into a smile.

“Yeah,” he says, “we’re good.”

The more he thinks about it, the more a night alone sounds appealing. Time to go _full Pepperwood_ ; no distractions, no impromptu trips to A&E, no more chance encounters with Doctor Sam.

* * *

It’s not that simple though: he sits himself down on their couch in the living room later that day, beer in hand, getting prepared for his evening with yarn, pins and a corkboard, when Schmidt and Cece walk in (seriously _,_ why the hell are they still walking into the loft all the time? They don’t live here anymore!) and ruin everything. Reagan’s all dressed up and ready to go to her fancy work party, and he bids her farewell, tilting his beer at her in salute—

“—Wait, you’re not going? Don’t you want to meet Reagan’s friends?”

He shrugs casually, mind still half focused on his vision for his pinboard. 

“Mm, we never really talked about it,” he says.

It’s not that he _doesn’t_ want to meet Reagan’s friends, but she’s never offered to introduce him to them and, well, he hasn’t asked. If he’s honest, the prospect scares him a little; he’s not been in many relationships where the girl’s stuck around long enough to get to that stage. There was Caroline, of course, but most of their friends were mutual friends from college…and then there was Jess, and well, Jess only has one real friend: Cece. Reagan’s different: Reagan’s so mysterious, so private, that he can’t picture what her friends would be like and that unknown terrifies him deep to the core. He’s never liked surprises.

Schimdt and Cece don’t let it go though, because it’s Schmidt and Cece and they’re self-proclaimed relationship experts (which is something that Nick would like everyone to know that he strongly disagrees with because does anyone remember the whole fiasco with Shivrang? Elizabeth? Because he does!). Schmidt calls meeting Reagan’s friends a _major relationship step_ and asks why they haven’t talked about it, which makes Nick inwardly shudder and immediately take three long gulps of his beer, whilst Reagan just shrugs, expression completely neutral, unaffected as always.

“Ugh, because we’re not all coupley like you two are, we don’t talk about every little thing.”

He goes along with it because he feels like it’s the right thing to do in the moment…except then he’s panicking and overcompensating because he’s more than a little bit incredulous that Schmidt – _of all people -_ is trying to give him relationship advice and he’s suddenly agreeing to go to this party with Reagan. Things with Reagan are fine. Just fine _._ Great, even. Very, very good.

(“Look, we do things in our own way, right?” Reagan says, and he nods because that’s clearly the expected – and _correct_ – reaction, but her words linger in his head when he gets dressed in his room and his gaze drops onto his abandoned pinboard, eyes locking with Photo Jess. He thinks that if she was here, she’d tell him to go to the party as well; she’d probably pat him on the shoulder and give him some inspiring pep talk about how he’ll charm the pants off Reagan’s friends and that _he’s incredible,_ and he’d believe her because it’s Jess, and she’s always been able to read him like a book _–_ and he’s the one that should be reading everyone like books here; he’s a goddamn writer!)

* * *

Reagan’s fancy drug party is, frankly, a disaster and he spends half the time cursing Schmidt and Cece for interfering and getting in his head, and the other half buying raffle tickets (screw life savings, he’s walking away from tonight with a prize, okay?) and getting drunk for the second night in a row. Firstly, it turns out that everyone at the party has slept together – and when he says everyone, Reagan, his girlfriend _,_ is very much included – and then, he finds out that she was a ballerina (uh, what?), and then, and here’s the big one, he finds out mid-conversation that Reagan had gotten a big promotion (vice president! that sounds like a huge deal?) and _didn’t tell him_. Yeah, like she said earlier, they’ve never been coupley in the sense that Schmidt and Cece are, and he knows he’s not much of a talker, and he’s honestly okay with not knowing every single little detail about her life…but this? Most people would probably tell their boyfriend when they first found out they were being promoted, but hey, ‘it’s cool; we don’t talk, that’s why we work’ and—who is he kidding? He’s really bothered by this. This is definitely news that should have been shared with him, just like the whole “oh, I have a second apartment” thing.

He’s about five beers in and over $300 worth of raffle tickets down when he realises just how badly he’s spiralling, his hands shaking as he struggles to get a secure grip on his beer – and so, he does the only thing that makes sense in this situation: he puts the beer aside temporarily and he calls Jess.

“—I’m having a problem, and I feel like you really like when I’m, you know, I’m having a problem. Not that you like it—but that you like talking about it. Anyway, I’m just coming apart here. I’m really 100% falling apart and I really wish you’d call me back.”

He clutches his phone tighter, staring at the screen, desperately hoping that she’ll call and tell him what he should do with this whole Reagan situation…except then he’s distracted by Schmidt calling and—ugh. Can Schmidt and Cece not leave him alone? He’s waiting for a call from Jess and he’s dealing with a lot right now. He doesn't have time for this. He tells them that they’ve ruined everything, because he wouldn’t be at this damn party if it wasn’t for them, but then, also, that yeah, _okay,_ maybe this situation has made him realise what he’s been feeling for a while: he needs more. He wants the important talks. With Reagan.

Jess never calls him back, but his phone pings with a text. It’s not long, and it’s definitely not as good as a call, but it temporarily soothes the rising panic in his chest. He rereads the text right before he goes to find Reagan again, the words giving him confidence, even if they’re being read through an admittedly grubby screen.

_You’ll do the right thing, Nick. I believe in you. – Jess_

* * *

The ride back to the loft is deadly silent; Reagan’s just tapping away on her phone, tight-lipped, whilst Nick stares out of the window, mind whirling. In all his thirty something years on this planet, he’s never been in this situation before; he’s never been in the position where he wants a girl to talk _more_ about their life. It’s completely out of character for him and there’s a big part of him that hates himself for even thinking it, but he just—he wants more. He needs more. He can’t continue like this. Something has to change. There’s piles upon piles of stuff that he wants to talk about: not just Reagan’s promotion, but he wants to talk about what they get up to when they’re not together, he wants to talk about that damn racoon that was sitting in his spot in the park, her (not so) secret second apartment, why she doesn't seem to care about him making a pinboard about his ex-girlfriend right in front of her, why he’s never been at his best sexually with her, and hell, he even wants to talk about why they don’t have nicknames for each other. Why does she just call him Nick? It all spills out of him as soon as they get into the loft, having dragged his (well-deserved) raffle prize through the doorway, and once he starts speaking, he can’t stop. He doesn’t _want to stop._ He wants to talk, and talk, and talk.

Nick ends up telling her to take the promotion, and then she heads off to bed, and he thought he’d feel better after getting all that stuff off his chest, but he doesn’t. He feels…empty, almost. He finds Schmidt and Cece in the living room (again, why are they here? It’s almost midnight? When are they going home?) and voices the thought that he thinks he’s been sitting on for a while and didn’t want to admit to himself; not when he had followed her to New Orleans, asked her to move in with him, and everything.

“I—I don’t think me and Reagan are working out.”

Schmidt and Cece say they’re sorry, but if he’s honest, they don’t _sound_ very sorry; in fact, they almost sound…pleased about it. He ignores their insensitivity though (thanks _friends_ ), pushes it to the back of his head, because he’s glad for some company right now. He’s not sure he wants to be alone with his own thoughts as he's pretty confident he’ll start panicking again and doing something he’ll regret in the morning; nope, the best course of action is to sit with Schmidt and Cece out here, away from Reagan, drink more beer, and hopefully pass out and wake up to a much better day.

* * *

The only problem is, of course, that Schmidt and Cece don’t live in this loft anymore and Winston and Aly are still at work…so, in the end, he is very much alone. He creeps into his bedroom, stumbles into bed beside Reagan, and stares up at the ceiling, his mind racing, wide awake thanks to the adrenaline running through his veins. He’s midway through idly trying to count the number of cracks on his ceiling when he realises that he never did get the chance to tell Reagan about what happened yesterday with Doctor Sam – and, more importantly, _she didn’t ask_. She. Didn’t. Ask.

He startles and turns as he feels a light tap on his shoulder, Reagan leaning over him, the start of a smile inching across her face.

“Make-up sex?”

He blinks in surprise, pauses a little too long, and then shakes his head, just once. He never thought he’d be saying this, but he’s really…not in the mood. Not tonight. Reagan lets out a loud sigh, then curls up facing away from him, leaving a gap between their bodies. He goes back to staring at the ceiling, pursing his lips as he thinks back to the words he had uttered to Coach a while ago:

_Who do you see yourself next to in forty, fifty years’ time? Be honest with yourself._

Reagan? Schmidt? Winston? Tran?

(Jess _._ )

It’s roughly 4 AM when he finally drags himself out of bed, still unable to sleep but a whole lot more sober. He switches on the dim lamp above his desk, quickly checking that he hadn’t woken Reagan up, before slowly lowering himself down into his desk chair. He pulls a ball of yarn towards himself, face scrunching up in concentration as he forces himself to focus. He feels like everything in his life is crumbling and he—he really _needs_ Jess back. Trusty, reliable, always knows the right thing to do, Jessica Day.

Think, Miller. You can figure this out.

* * *

_Can you check on Nick for me? He left me a message saying that he was falling apart and I just want to make sure he’s okay. I'd call him myself, but...you know. – Jess xox_

_Don't worry about it; I got you. Bish is on the case. - W_


	9. early morning detective work and winston's (not so) simple questions

Nick stares at the board in front of him, deep in thought. He’s not really sure where to start, twisting the ball of yarn between his fingers absentmindedly, and—you idiot, you probably can’t think properly because you’re not in the right attire for this. He drags himself out of his chair again, being careful not to make too much noise so that he doesn't disturb Reagan, quickly rummaging through the pile of clothes that he has stored haphazardly in the corner of the room (it’s all part of an elaborate system, okay?) until he finds his Pepperwood hat and sunglasses. He quickly shoves them on, except as soon as he's done it, he’s not so sure that the sunglasses are a good idea because, you know, it’s 4 AM in the morning and there’s not much light in here that he needs to be protecting his eyes from. Still, he can’t make a proper Pepperwood board unless he fully embodies the character of Julius Pepperwood so...sunglasses it is. He sits himself back into his chair, leaning back, and hey, look at that! He already feels 150% more confident about this.

Okay, so…think Miller. Why isn’t Jess calling you back? He roughly cuts a piece of yarn and starts connecting it from the photo of Jess he'd messily pinned in the middle of the board outwards. The most obvious option is that she’s mad at him because he did something stupid and he hasn’t realised it yet…except, he really doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong. On the other hand, you know, he drinks (too) often, and he’s been known to forget things in an alcohol-induced daze… though, if Jess really was so mad at him to the extent that she had to run away to Portland and cut him out of her life so suddenly, he’s pretty sure that Cece would not have offered him advice yesterday, but would be enthusiastically plotting his demise instead. (He shudders; that’s a terrifying thought. Let's be honest, he wouldn't stand a chance against Cece.)

…And then, there was that impromptu loft meeting the other day. Schmidt, Cece and Winston clearly have some secret that they’re keeping from him and his gut feeling tells him that the secret is probably Jess'…but since when did Jessica Day keep secrets from him? (Or, let’s rephrase: since when did Jessica Day trust _Schmidt_ with her secrets over him?) Yes, he doesn’t have the best track record of keeping secrets, but if it was a secret that was really important to her, he’d keep it quiet. (He’s a Keeper of the Five Secrets, after all! Sure, he’d have to consult with Winston first because they would have to make room for it in their Five Secrets vault, but he can keep a secret when it matters. He's been keeping five whole secrets for years! Five!)

When she called him when she was drunk back when he was at Socalyalcon VI, she'd mentioned in passing that she was drinking because she was sad...but what could she possibly be sad about that she didn't feel like she could talk to him about? She'd even talked to him after the first breakup with Sam, and he was the one that had caused it by, you know, momentarily forgetting his place and kissing her (it's still the best damn kiss of his life, if he's entirely honest).

Speaking of Sam, there was that little bombshell of a sentence he had dropped the other day. He’s not sure that it's directly related to Jess’ current disappearance and behaviour, but it’s still something Jess-related that he doesn’t understand so he might as well stick it on the board anyway. He connects a piece of yarn from the centre all the way to the corner, roughly scribbling down Sam’s words next to it with a marker pen. _She couldn’t marry me because of you_. Either Jess is bothered enough by his relationship with Sam that she didn’t feel like she could go through with it (in which case, Nick’s an absolute jerk and he swears he’ll be nicer to whoever she dates next time, as long as it isn’t Sam again), or…

Or…

Or...

_Or_ …it’s what Tran was subtly insinuating on the park bench and the reason Jess couldn’t marry Sam is because she was still harbouring feelings for _him_. He pauses, roughly cutting another piece of yarn and sticking one end at the centre of the board, twisting the other end between his fingers as he continues pondering this. Did Jess...go to Portland because she was in love with him? Cece did tell him to give her some space... and he supposes it would explain why Schmidt, Cece and Winston were acting so goddamn weird the other day... and why she's answering everyone’s calls _except_ for his and Reagan’s...and-

He shakes his head hard, slapping both cheeks once. Stop it, Miller; don’t go down that road. It’s a possibility, sure, but they’ve both moved on a long time ago. The fact that Jess was even in love with him _once_ was already a miracle, and after how messily things ended…yeah, there’s no way she’d still feel that way about him now. He's not the kinda guy that a girl comes back for. Besides, Jess has been earnestly encouraging him to pursue a relationship with Reagan ever since she came back from jury duty: she was the one who pushed him to go to New Orleans, she was the one who kept telling him to talk to Reagan about his problems, and she was the one who helped him swing the loft votes so that Reagan could move in with him. Why would she do that if she had feelings for him?

(…but, what if. _What. If._ )

In the end, he leaves the thread disconnected from the rest of the board, just a loose blue thread hanging in the air.

* * *

_About to check on Nick, I’ll keep you updated. – W_

_When are you coming home? Furguson misses you. – W_

_I’m not sure. Nick called me the other night when he was drunk and he said some things that made me realise that I’m just—I don’t know if I can be around him. I don’t even know how to talk to him anymore. – Jess xox_

_Nick’s a fool when he’s drunk, you know that. Whatever he said, I’m sure it was stupid and he didn’t mean it. Look, Jess, I know this is hard, but I’m here for you. We all are. – W_

* * *

_Nick, you up? – W_

Nick doesn’t bother replying, counting to three in his head…and sure enough, just as he reaches three, Winston barges into his room without knocking, extravagantly colourful bird shirt and all. He takes a moment to take in his surroundings, eyebrows slowly raising as he spots Nick’s creation (which, yeah, in the morning light doesn’t look as polished as he thought it was at 4 AM), bits of blue yarn sticking out everywhere.

“What exactly are you doing here, Nick?” Winston asks, eyes wide, then turns to face him, taking a step backwards as he registers his appearance, sniffing the air. “You look like a mess. How much sleep did you get?”

Nick thinks about it deeply, scrunching his eyes. Everything's a bit fuzzy if he's honest.

“Not sure,” he says, with a slow shrug. “If I had to guess, probably…zero hours?”

“You have to guess about that?”

Nick shakes his head, tilting his gaze upwards.

“Look, buddy, I’m kind of…busy in here so if there’s nothing that you need me for, I’d appreciate it if you—”

“—Where’s Raisin? Has she seen this? Has she seen _you_? Wait, don't tell me, are the sunglasses because you've suddenly gone blind?

“I—Firstly, it’s _Reagan_ and you know that. Secondly, why are you being so dramatic this morning? And…” he pauses, rubbing a hand tiredly over his eyes before quietly admitting what he had said to Schmidt and Cece last night. “I don’t think Reagan and I are working out.”

Winston winces visibly, reaching out to pat his shoulder.

“Sorry man. You want to talk about it?” He asks, but Nick just gives him a small shrug, shaking his head.

Sure, he didn't sleep much (at all) last night, he's still got a good amount of alcohol in his system and he's been overly distracted by this pinboard, but he thinks he's past the spiralling stage. The truth is, he thinks he's known for a while now that Reagan and him are two very different people; they’re at different stages of their lives and they want different things out of a relationship, and that's...okay. He feels weirdly okay about everything. He hasn't quite figured out exactly what he's going to do about it yet, but he will, just as soon as Winston leaves him alone and he can catch some sleep.

“So, I hate to bring this up right now, but I have to ask: what did you say to Jess the other night?”

Nick frowns, blinking twice, wondering if he’s misheard due to his severe lack of sleep. He repeats Winston’s words, just to be sure, but Winston just levels his gaze at him, nodding once. He frowns harder, mouth curving downwards, thinking back. What did he say to _Jess_? If Winston's asking him, that means that Jess must have mentioned something, which means that...he did say something stupid to her when he was drunk that day? He rubs his forehead, thinking hard. He’s still not entirely sure what he said to Jess, but the memories of that day aren’t as blurry as they were.

“I, uh, I bumped into Sam and he said that Jess wouldn’t marry him because of _me_ , and I—I think I told her that…I’d be okay if she married Sam.”

Winston stares at him, expression unreadable, slowly crossing his arms. Nick feels instantly uncomfortable under his gaze, turning away slightly to break eye contact, slumping himself down into his chair, already exhausted by this conversation.

“Why exactly do you think that Jess couldn’t marry Sam?”

Nick pauses, his eyes subconsciously shifting to the loose thread hanging off his pinboard.

“I don’t know,” he replies honestly, after a beat, because he really doesn't. He has several theories, sure, but he doesn't quite know which one of these threads most represents reality.

Winston just continues watching him expectantly until Nick's stumbling for an answer, squirming under his gaze. (Winston's really managed to get this whole cop interrogation thing down, and if he wasn't the one currently in the hot seat, he thinks he'd probably be proud of him.)

“Because, uh, of my relationship with Sam? She knows I hate the guy, and for good reason too: he’s a clown!”

Winston tilts his head at him, licking his lips once.

"This might come as a surprise, but not everything is about you. Not like that, anyway,” he says cryptically.

Nick opens his mouth to question him on that, but before he can say anything further, Winston’s taken a step closer, arms crossed, fixing him with a gaze that’s so penetrating that he can’t look away.

"Would you really be okay if Jess married Sam?”

“Yes—No—I—What are you, what are you trying to get at here?”

“It’s a simple question, Nick,” he replies, leaning forward slightly.

Nick stares back, his mouth suddenly going dry as he involuntarily pictures Jess together with Sam. Sam, Sam, Doctor Sam. Doctor freaking Sam.

“I don’t—This isn’t about what _I_ think! What kind of friend would I be if I got in the way of Jess being happy?”

“…And you think that Sam would have made her happy?”

Nick hesitates, swallows. He’s more than a little bit thrown by the direction that this conversation is going, not entirely sure what Winston wants to hear.

“No, of course I don’t,” he says eventually, shaking his head hard, voice growing louder with every word.

“Sam’s a clown, and he never deserved Jess! Jess—Jess is a goddamn _angel_ ,” he cuts himself off, swallowing again, taking a deep breath before he continues. “I just—I guess what I’m trying to say is that I want Jess to be happy, whatever it takes. Look, I don’t know why she’s not answering my calls, but if something I said came out wrong then—”

“—Stay right here,” Winston interrupts, holding out one finger at him as he digs for his phone with his free hand.

Nick takes a breath, mouth curving downwards slightly (this is _his_ room, buddy! Where else is he going to go?), eyeing him suspiciously as he starts to dial a number. Winston holds it up to his ear, waiting a few seconds, and then passes it to him.

"Repeat all that.”

“Winston?”

“Uh, it’s actually Nick. Don’t hang up, Jess,” he says, his mind struggling to find the right words in his sleep-deprived state. He's suddenly nervous, palms sweating, and he's not sure why because it's just Jess. His trusty roommate/roomfriend Jess.

"Look, I don’t know if you’re mad at me because of something I said the other day, but Winston’s kinda giving me the impression that you are, but—anyway, what I _wanted_ to say when I was drunk is that I’d…I’d do anything for ya Jess. I’d even deal with Sam every day for you.”

He pauses, waiting for Jess to say something, _anything_ , but she doesn’t, the sounds of her gentle breathing filtering through the speaker.

“I wasn’t completely honest though,” he continues slowly, “I wouldn’t have been entirely okay with you marrying Sam because you deserve more than him. You deserve a guy who is crazy about ya, who’s going to be there when you need him. You...you deserve the very best.”

There’s another stretch of silence, Nick running his hand messily through his hair, his heart beating fast as he waits for a reply, hoping he hasn’t somehow screwed this up even further. This new dynamic between them is oddly off-putting and he's not sure what to say or do. It makes him nervous and anxious, and the urge to just curl up into a ball on his floor is increasing with every second of silence. He’s never had any trouble striking up a conversation with Jess before…and that’s saying a lot, because if there's one thing Nick Miller hates, it's small talk and spontaneous singing.

“Thanks, Nick,” he hears eventually, though her voice sounds off, weaker somehow, but that could be because she’s all the way in Portland and he’s currently functioning on zero hours of sleep so he ignores it for now.

“So…are we good? You’re not…mad at me? Because I’ve really missed talking to ya, kid. The loft’s not the same without you.”

There’s another pause.

“I—I was never mad at you, Nick,” she says softly, her words making his chest feel warm, tension slipping away. 

Nick clutches the phone a bit tighter, feeling like a burden has been lifted off his chest. Jess is finally talking to him and she's not mad at him, and—wait, if she wasn’t ever mad at him, then that eliminates that option from his Pepperwood board, which would mean—surely...surely not?

“Anyway, let's, um, let's not talk about me. How are you doing? You left me that voicemail about falling apart last night and I...I was really worried about you.”

"I'm fine, I'm cool, don't worry about me," he says dismissively.

He desperately wants to tell her about his latest revelation about Reagan and relationships and feelings, but his mind is running at a million miles an hour, a myriad of thoughts forming and dissolving in his brain, wondering if that loose thread on his board is not so much of a loose thread but...the _only thread_.

“Jess, you’d tell me if you—” He pauses, tilts his head, not sure how to approach this.

If she really _did_ have feelings for him, what…what would that mean? What would he even do with that information? He still has a girlfriend (for now), and Jess and him, they’re just fundamentally different people and they don’t fit together, not like that. Their relationship was full of passion and love, but it was also full of…doubts. Overwhelming, devastating, earth-shattering doubts. And also, you know, he blew it. Badly. He closed that door a long time ago and convinced himself that it was for the best, and he's simply not brave enough to reopen that Pandora's box. Her friendship means too much to him.

“You’d tell me if—You don’t like—”

“—Hey, I hate to interrupt, but I kinda need my phone back. I need to take Furguson to his morning spa appointment. That crazy cat loves a good pampering, if you know what I mean.”

Nick shoots him a weird look (because, no, he doesn’t know what he means…and frankly, he doesn’t want to know), but then nods, pursing his lips.

“Jess, Winston needs his phone back and, if I’m honest, I kinda need to get some sleep. If I call you back later, will you pick up? There's so much I want to talk to ya about.”

The line stays silent, and Nick starts to feel himself sweating, his back beginning to get uncomfortably warm.

“ _Jessica_ , promise me you'll pick up."

“Okay, I promise," she eventually says, her voice sounding a bit more like herself.

Nick breathes out a sigh of relief, clutching the phone a bit tighter instinctively, even though he knows that they’re about to end this conversation. He’s really missed her.

"I’ll…I’ll talk to you later, Nick.”

* * *

_So…I spoke to Nick this morning and you know what? I don’t think he’s completely over Jess. Is it time for another classic Cece and Winston mess around? – W_

_Babe, as much as I’d love to, we—we can’t get involved for Jess' sake. If what you’re saying is really true, he has to figure it out himself. Besides, there's Reagan to think about too. It's not the right time. – Cece xox_

_But…babe! – W_

_We can’t! Don’t make me come over there. – Cece xox_

_Okay, okay, I won't. (but please come over, I have to show you Furguson’s new look!) – W_


	10. emotions, sunshine and smiles

When he wakes up from his nap, he feels oddly exhausted. It’s not a physical tiredness (though okay, he’s always a fair bit physically tired; he's been trying to work on his body, but, you know, the dumplings always call...), but more of a mental tiredness. He glances down at the back of his left hand, raising it up to eye-level in order to read the message he vaguely remembers scrawling there right before he went to sleep (‘ _You and Reagan aren’t working out’_ ), sighs _,_ and then glances at his right hand (‘ _Call Jess_ ’). He runs his right hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes, and then cautiously turns his hands over, a little afraid of what might be on the other side. There’s a short message written in the centre of his palm in tiny, almost indecipherable handwriting: ‘ _Jess has feelings for…you?_ ’

Nick stares at that, blinks a couple of times, then drops back into bed, turning to bury his head into his pillows, the memories of last night/early morning flooding back. He lets out a high-pitched scream that’s half-muffled by his pillow, before sitting back up. Okay, Miller, you can do this. You can pull yourself together and navigate through this emotional forest. Or, at least, _try_ to.

First of all, what is he going to do about the Reagan situation? He thinks back to last night, his mind a little bit clearer now that he’s had the time to digest everything and get the alcohol out of his system. She didn’t tell him about her big promotion and she hasn't asked him about what happened with Sam, and it—it still really bothers him, enough that he knows that he’s going to need to find a way to end things sooner or later. It’s not _Reagan’s_ fault, not exactly; he’d been the one that had acted like he was completely fine with a relationship where they didn’t talk about everything going on in their respective lives, overwhelmed by the fact that she actually appeared to be sexually attracted to him. He supposes it’s really… _his_ fault, if anyone’s, for giving her that impression. It’s not the first time that he’s tried to change himself and hide his true desires from potential significant others, and he thinks he’s maybe just…afraid that no-one will accept him for the mess he is, Pepperwood hat and all. He shakes his head hard, rubbing his forehead and then slapping both cheeks once. That’s a…sufficiently sobering, unsettling thought. Great start, Miller.

…And then, there’s Jess. The more he thinks about it, the more he’s convinced that this wasn’t some misdirected epiphany that he had come up with due to a lack of sleep, but that he might actually be on to something here. Aside from what Sam had said to him the other day, Jess _had_ been acting uncharacteristically squirrelly when he came back from New Orleans with Reagan, and…thinking back, there was also that comment she had made when he’d ask her to bake that sheet cake with him (“I’m not doing this anymore. All the girlfriend stuff, it’s not fair!”). She’d passed it off as being unfair to Reagan, but what if, what if she really had meant unfair to _her_? He shuts his eyes, frowning, troubled. Did she feel like she had to run all the way to Portland to get away from him and Reagan? And if she did, did that mean that she wasn’t going to come home unless he— He shakes his head hard. He loves Jess, sure, but is he _in love_ with Jess? He honestly doesn’t have a concrete answer to that question, and it’s terrifying and overwhelming, and complicated. It’s just, well, he’s not thought about Jess like that in a long while, shoved all those feelings into a box right at the back of his brain, and he’d really thought that he— _they_ had moved on. He’d accepted that he’d blew it and that it was for the best. Besides, he…he had Reagan, and at one point, he really, truly did believe that Reagan was the one and he was genuinely happy in their relationship. Nick lets out a slow, deep sigh, eyes still shut, head pounding.

He doesn’t know how he feels about this.

He doesn’t know how he _should_ feel about it.

He doesn’t know how to fix it.

Miller, stop. Maybe you’re just overthinking this whole thing and misreading the entire situation. Until you’re completely, 100% sure that this is what’s happening here, there’s no point in going down that road. Let’s just…deal with one problem at a time, okay?

* * *

Nick calls Jess back, even though he knows it’s not the smartest move to make, given that he’s now 85% sure he knows why she’s been avoiding him and 0% sure how he feels about it; but hey, he’s the dumbest boy in school (shut up, Schmidt) and he can’t help himself. This is the longest that they’ve ever gone without talking to each other and talking to Jess has always helped him make sense of the turmoil in his head, whether she knows it or not.

Jess doesn’t pick up immediately, and for a horrifying few seconds, he wonders if she'd lied to him earlier just so that he’d hang up, but then suddenly the line clicks and he hears her voice, warm and welcoming in his ear.

“Hey Nick,” she says, and he’s immediately smiling in response, half out of relief that she had actually picked up and was seemingly wanting to talk to him, and half just smiling because it’s Jess and he’s missed the sound of her voice.

“Hey Day,” he replies, leaning back into his pillows, making himself comfortable. “How’s your day been?”

“It’s been…okay,” she answers, but Nick senses the hesitation there and he, once again, thinks back to that loose thread on his board. 

Is she _uncomfortable_ talking to him? He frowns at that unsettling thought, clenching his free hand tight until his nails are digging into the skin of his palm. He doesn’t know what to do: should he just ask her, plain and simple, if she has feelings for him again like he was about to do this morning before Winston interrupted them? Or…would that just make everything a whole lot worse? If he was in that situation, he’s not sure he’d react well to being put on the spot like that…and besides, it would be more than a little unfair for him to do that to her when he has no idea of how he would react whatever answer she provided. If it was a _no_ , _Nick, of course I don't have feelings for you,_ then that would be…awkward as hell, and if it was a _yes_ , well…yeah. He doesn’t know. In the end, he pastes a smile onto his face and forces himself to fill the silence as cheerily as he can. It’s just Jess, Nick. Just. Jess.

“Come on, tell me something! What have you been up to in Portland? Did you, uh, visit the Shakespeare Garden? And the Italian soda shop? And the pizza place we all went to for lunch when we were there?”

There’s a soft laugh down the line, and he grins at the sound, encouraged by her response. That’s it, Miller, crack those jokes; sunshine and smiles until you figure out exactly what’s going on and what to do.

“You…you remember the tour?”

“Of course I do,” he says, with a shrug. “You were a great tour guide.”

A beat passes, and Nick’s wondering if it’s time to change the subject again as now he’s not just thinking about the Portland tour, but about what else happened that trip, seeing Jess crying in her childhood room, and—

“Speaking of that tour, I—I actually…I actually saw Ryan the other day. Here in Portland.”

He blinks. Did Jess know what he was just thinking about or—sunshine and smiles, Nick. _Sunshine and smiles._

“…Ryan? It took him that many months to get from England to Portland? Did he try to walk there?” He quips, then frowns at himself, because he’s not so sure that was such a funny joke now that it’s out in the open.

Before the whole Portland no-show fiasco, Nick had reasonably liked Ryan: he was smart and sensible, had his whole life planned out, and sort of seemed like exactly the kinda guy that Jess should be dating. It was nice. But then, of course, he moved to England, screwed things up with Jess spectacularly (pulled a real dick move, if you asked him) and now when he thinks of Ryan, all he can think of is _what an idiot you are, pal_. _You’re missing out._

There’s a long pause, and Nick’s just about to open his mouth to profusely apologise for that badly timed, inappropriate joke while simultaneously cursing himself in his head, but then Jess lets out a slow, soft chuckle.

“No, he, um, he was actually visiting Portland with his fiancé,” she tells him, and he immediately scrunches his face, wincing hard. “Turns out he managed to make some time for her.”

“I'm sorry,” he says, running his free hand messily through his hair, still wincing. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. It—It was a long time ago,” she replies, and she sounds reasonably confident in her response, so Nick relaxes a bit and stops messing up his hair so much. “You were right that day: the only thing that matters is if the guy is there for you when you need him. Otherwise, I’m just…dating a wall.”

“Right. No-one wants to be dating a wall,” he agrees, nodding slowly. (It’s solid advice, and he’s honestly quite impressed with Past Nick. Sometimes he comes out with some bursts of excellence, only 90% of which are stolen from movies. The other 10% are pure Miller.)

They fall into silence for a few minutes, both of them waiting for the other one to speak, until the silence stretches a bit too long for it to be comfortable.

“Jess, I—”

“So, tell me about—”

He swallows thickly, tilts his head.

“You go first,” he says, gesturing with his hand, even though he’s dimly aware that she can’t actually see him.

“I know that you said that you were fine earlier, but you didn’t sound so great on the phone last night, and I—I’m really sorry that I didn’t call you back when you left me that message, I just—I couldn’t. But, I’m here now, so…if you want to talk about it, we can.”

Nick swallows again, lets out a slow sigh. He’s still not sure what he should do about Reagan and he wants nothing more than to get Jess’ opinion on the whole situation but…should he really be talking to Jess about this if she may (or may not) have feelings for him? Is that…acceptable?

“Nick? Still there?”

“Nothing. There’s absolutely nothing to talk about. Everything’s great. I’m great.”

There’s a pause, and then, “Miller, you’re a terrible liar.”

He sighs again, rubbing his forehead with his free hand, already feeling like he’s cracking and she hasn’t even tried to get anything out of him yet. You’re weak, Miller. Really, really, weak. He rubs his forehead a bit harder, and then the words are spilling out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“I don’t think Reagan and I are working out,” he says, fast. “I’ve just been…thinking a lot lately about what I want out of, you know, _relationships,_ and I think I—I think I want more. I want someone who I can talk to about…stuff. All the stuff. I know, I know, it’s stupid. I just…I don’t know. It's not working.”

There’s a pause, and Nick’s mouth twists downwards, eyes sliding shut. He listens to Jess’ breathing, trying to breath in sync with her to slow the racing beat of his heart, but it's oddly fast and it doesn't really help. He knows how he feels about the whole Reagan situation deep inside, he just can’t find the correct words to eloquently express it, and it’s frustrating to no end.

“Hey, I—I don’t think it’s stupid at all, Nicholas. I think it’s actually really…mature of you,” she says, softly. “But…Nick, you looked really happy when you were with Reagan. Genuinely happy.”

He tilts his head at that, because, yeah, he _was_ genuinely happy at one point, and also, this is the one sticking point about his whole Jess having feelings for him theory. If she really did like him, why was she actively pushing them together? Unless this was just…Jess doing whatever it took to make _him_ happy.

“Look, Nick, if you’re going to end things, just, be sure that it’s the right decision. There’s no going back from that and you don’t—you don’t want to end up an old man filled with regret.”

Nick nods slowly, contemplating her words in his head. It’s good advice, but he’s still stuck on his last train of thought and he faintly wonders if she’s still talking about him and Reagan, or if she’s now referring to them. For months after their breakup, he’d regretted what had happened with every fibre of his body, wishing that he had fought for her more; how could they have let a fight that happened whilst they were both hungover ruin something so great?

“Do you regret what happened between us?” He asks quietly, thinking out loud, but once he’s said it, he can’t take it back and he’s also intrigued to hear her answer.

He clutches the phone tighter, heart racing as he listens to her breathing catch, clearly surprised by the question.

“Oh, I—I don’t know. We were just…kids,” she says hesitantly, dismissively, then redirects. “Do…you?”

“Yeah. Sometimes,” he admits truthfully, after a beat, shrugging once.

Jess hangs up the phone after that, suddenly feeding him a story about her dad falling over in the kitchen that he doesn’t believe for a second. He keeps the phone held to his ear even after he's heard the phone line click dead, because that reaction makes him now 99% sure that his theory is correct and _damn it Miller_ , you’ve really got yourself into a sticky situation now.

( _Love is never what you think it’s going to be, is it?_ )

* * *

_Step 1 is in place. - W_

_What?! I explicitly told you that we couldn't get involved! - Cece xox_

_You better hope that whatever you've done was too small and not too big, or I'm going to kill you. - Cece xox_


	11. prank sinatra and shots of absinthe

_(Photo) – W_

_What have I told you about sending us selfies of you and your cat, Winston? Stop doing it! – Schmidt_

_…also, your skin’s looking a bit dry. Have you not been using the moisturiser I gifted you for Christmas?! – Schmidt_

_Firstly, Furguson and I look cute as hell in that photo and you know it…and secondly, look *behind* the cat. – W_

_Wait, is that…? – Cece xox_

_Did I go too big again? I know I have a tendency to do that with pranks, but I swear I’ve been working on it. – W_

_First of all, this is not a prank. But…you know what? I think this is just right. I'm impressed. – Cece xox_

_Prank Sinatra strikes again. - W_

_This is not a prank, you fool! - Schmidt_

* * *

Nick tries to push Jess and her possible feelings for him to the back of his head as every time he thinks about it, he starts spiralling into a black hole of _what ifs..._ but the universe must hate him, because he’s suddenly hallucinating remnants of their relationship everywhere he looks. He walks into the living room later that evening on his way to grab a cold beer from the fridge when he abruptly stops in his tracks and does a double take as he spots something that he hasn’t seen in a while and that definitely shouldn’t be displayed out here. Didn’t Jess dig the mug out of the trash? Does the fact that it’s out here again mean that she’s home? …and if she _is_ home, why would she have put _this_ out here? He awkwardly moonwalks back to their shared hallway, takes a deep breath to steady his nerves, peeking cautiously into her room. He's half split between wanting to find her in there because it's kinda weird not bumping into her all the time and half not wanting to find her in there because he's not sure what that would imply. Jess' room is still empty though, no sign of life in there. Huh. Is he...is he dreaming?

Nick slaps each cheek once, shaking his head, and walks back into the hallway in a bit of a daze, picking up the offending object and twisting it in his hands. He can feel the cool, smooth ceramic underneath his hands – he’s _not_ hallucinating! – and gently traces the Associated Strategies logo beneath his fingertips. He lets a wry smile cross his face, memories flooding through his mind as he remembers how often they used to use it (and let me tell you, it was _often:_ mug times = great times).

“What’s that you’ve got there?”

He jumps, turning around to see Winston sitting on the couch, watching him with poorly disguised interest, eyes gleaming. He immediately turns to shove the mug behind his back, feeling a little guilty about it, even though he wasn’t doing anything wrong! It was just _out here_!

  
“Uh, nothing,” he says quickly, hastily retreating back to his room, keeping his back faced away from Winston, mug hidden.

Winston lets out a knowing chuckle, raising his phone to snap a quick photo (which Nick tries to dodge, eyes wide, but doesn't quite manage to hide his face in time: _what are ya doing, you weirdo?!_ ). He leaves the mug on his desk, right next to his Pepperwood board and tries to forget about it, its associated connotations bringing up memories that he had long forgotten back to the forefront of his mind. (For instance; there was that time when they had snuck into the Kids Choice Awards to watch a bunch of kids get awards and Jess was all fancy in that little black dress of hers. He’d kissed her hard when they reached the loft, pushing her back against the door, her hands intertwining themselves in his hair...but then they had walked into the loft and a miserable Schmidt was all alone on the couch, moping about Cece. They’d joined him because it felt like the right thing to do, but midway through Schmidt’s latest meltdown, Jess had stared at him with those captivating blue eyes, licking her lips just once, reaching into the cupboard and placing the mug on the table. He’d abandoned Schmidt then, with an awkward pat on the head, because, well, _you know_ : Nick Miller’s only human, and he’d lived through a million and one of these meltdowns about Cece in that week alone. He’d followed Jess into her room, grabbing her by her elbow and tangling their fingers together, and—whoa, _Miller_. Get a hold of yourself. That was a long time ago, and things just aren’t that simple anymore.)

The only problem is, it’s not just the mug that mysteriously resurfaces in the loft. He braves the living room again later that day after taking a (cold) shower, slumping himself down on the couch right next to Winston. He shifts to make himself comfortable, propping his feet up on the coffee table and shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants...and hey, is that a coin? He pulls it out and inspects it excitedly because _hey, free nickel!_ , but then he realises it's not just any coin, it's _that_ coin; the coin that he'd had in his pocket when he took that uncharacteristic leap of faith and kissed Jess for the first time, the numbers on the edges soft and worn out from all the times he had run his fingers over it. He's dimly aware that Reagan's just walked into the loft, but he can't quite tear his eyes away from the coin in his hands. What the hell? He could have sworn that he had stashed this in his box in his closet, safely locked away; in fact, he _knew_ it was there. How did this…How did this get into his pocket?! Had he started sleepwalking? (If so, he’s in trouble, because Sleeping Nick? Dangerous guy.) He had never thought of himself as a particularly sentimental or romantic kinda guy (like, at all), but with Jess, it had just felt natural. Throwing away this coin had always felt wrong to him and he’d kept it safe all these years; sure, he didn’t carry it around in his pocket anymore, but he always knew where it was at the back of his mind...so yeah, again, what the hell? This shouldn't be here.

“Are you okay?” Reagan asks, giving him a weird look as she hesitantly moves over, sliding across the couch to sit next to him. “You’ve been staring at that coin for a while.”

“Yeah, Nick, what are you holding?” Winston pipes in, watching him with the same intensity as he had earlier.

He shakes his head once to bring himself back to reality as he hastily shoves the coin back into his sweatpants, not wanting to have to explain why he magically has a coin that he'd saved from a past relationship - with _Jess_ , no less - in his pocket.

“Uh, nothing,” he says swiftly, before turning to face Reagan properly, forcing what he hopes is a convincing smile onto his face. “How was your day?”

There’s a pause, Reagan’s eyes sliding over to Winston who’s now busy texting someone, grinning widely as he types. She clears her throat once, twice, until Winston glances up and realises that they’re both staring at him pointedly.

“My apologies,” he says, bowing to each of them in turn as he stands up to give them the space, saluting them as he goes. “Bish out.”

Nick waits until he hears Winston’s door slam shut before facing Reagan again, gesturing for her to continue. She takes a deep breath, meeting his eyes, and he registers that she actually seems uncharacteristically nervous and on edge. It's unnerving, and it makes him sit straighter in his seat, chest pounding. He reaches forward to grab her hand, hoping it’s a somewhat reassuring gesture, and she glances down, taking another breath.

“Nick, I’m—I’m sorry for not telling you about the promotion,” she says, not meeting his eyes, but he knows how much it must have taken for her to apologise to him and open up, and his lips twist into a soft smile. She's _trying_.

“I—I didn’t know that you wanted to talk about things, and I guess I was afraid of telling you because the job would mean a lot more responsibility and a lot more travelling.”

He tilts his head in acknowledgement of that fact. What she’s saying, it’s not wrong. He hadn’t made it clear to her that he wanted to talk more, because, well, he hadn't realised that was what he wanted until recently.

“Look, I’ve, uh, I’ve come with a peace offering,” she says, lifting her gaze to meet his eyes, a small smile on her face, eyes warm. “I called the bookstore you did the reading at and they’ve agreed to hold another one…but only if you want. You don't have to.”

He blinks in surprise, a genuine smile crossing over his face, and he tugs her hand a little closer, intertwining their fingers; sure, she doesn’t tell him everything about her life, but she clearly cares about him in her own way. This unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome, gesture proves it, and…isn’t that enough? His brain is screaming _yes_ , but his heart is…his heart is still screaming _no_. His relationship with Reagan has always been complicated from the start, and he’s never been sure of how to navigate it, constantly afraid of making the wrong step and screwing it up. She’s just…so difficult to read.

He texts Jess later that night, even though he knows that he shouldn’t because of, well…everything that he now knows.

_How do I know if it’s the right decision? – Nick_

Her response arrives over an hour later, but when it does, he’s reading the words over and over again. It’s not the first time that she’s uttered these words to him, but it resonates with him this time more than ever. He rubs the coin that’s still in his pocket, making up his mind. This is it, Miller. No going back.

_(If you really love someone, it’s simple_. – _Jess xox)_

* * *

Nick doesn’t break up with Reagan straightaway, and he feels like more of a jerk with each passing day. It’s just, he doesn’t know exactly how to do it (usually the girl breaks up with _him_ , not the other way around), and Reagan’s been all smiles and soft kisses lately, clearly happier now that she’s agreed to take the promotion and everything’s out in the open. He’s midway through typing out some rough ideas for the next chapter of his Pepperwood sequel down at the bar (yeah, yeah, okay, he may be doing this to avoid having to deal with the inevitably messy breakup: sue him), when someone slumps into the bench opposite him, sliding a tray of shots across the table in his direction. He glances up in surprise, startled out of his thoughts, then blinks multiple times, not sure if he’s dreaming. (If he is, this is becoming a real habit lately, and either he needs to get way more sleep or someone up there is desperately trying to give him a sign.)

“ _Angie_?” She grins widely at him, salutes him with the bottle she’s holding in her hand. “How’s things with, uh, work?”

“You can say stripping, Nick,” she says, laughing, then leans forward over the table – a little too close – to pat him roughly on the cheek. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

He frowns at that, foot tapping on the ground nervously, because he thinks he _has_ changed. The idea that Past Nick really thought that he’d be happy with the sort of relationship – if you can even call it that – that he had with Angie is absurd to him now; it was too intense, too unpredictable, too impulsive. She drinks in silence for a few minutes, eyeing him up, and he’s split between wanting to address everything that happened between them all the way back then and steadfastly ignoring her presence and immersing himself in the fictional Pepperwood universe again. In the end, the first option wins out because he just, he has to know.

“Why’d you me leave that day?”

Angie shrugs, taking a swig of her beer.

“I guess I felt guilty; like I was leading you on,” she admits, shrugging again. “I never wanted a serious relationship and you said that you didn’t either, but—you did. You wanted someone that was going to go to brunch with you, talk about articles that you’ve read, do _normal_ , domestic things, and I’m just…I’m just not that kind of girl.”

Nick considers this, head tilted. Huh. Maybe he hasn’t changed as much as he thinks. In a lot of ways, what happened with Angie is similar to what’s happening now, minus the cabin, guns and the absinthe. Maybe he’s always wanted more out of his relationships, but he’s just been too afraid to admit it to himself until now. Talking about all the important stuff is scary and complex, and he’s not saying that he wants to go out and buy a damn _feelings stick_ (or, god forbid, participate in one of those weird ass feelings barn rituals and sit around talking at a chair), but…he’s grown enough to be able to recognise that he wants someone who will happily listen to his nonsense, laugh at his (excellent) jokes, and hold his hand when he’s had a bad day. Look at you, Miller: you're becoming an expert at this 'feelings' thing.

“I _am_ sorry that I kissed that guy though. That wasn’t cool,” she adds, and he shakes his head once, giving her a smile.

“Don’t worry about it, it was probably for the best,” he says, though now that he thinks about it, ‘that guy’ was _Doctor Sam_ , and is anyone sensing a pattern here? Why is Sam somehow always present at his lowest moments?

Angie grins back, reaching out to push the tray of shots towards him again.

“For old times’ sake?”

He tilts his head towards the ceiling, says a quick prayer, then downs the offered shot of absinthe, shuddering at the taste. He cuts himself off after one though, because he might not have changed that much inside, but he’s definitely much older than he was back then: one shot of absinthe is more than enough.

* * *

He’s still thinking about what Angie said as he catches a ride back to the loft. He makes it halfway, then gets stuck in a long queue of traffic, staring aimlessly out of the window deep in thought as he waits for everyone to start moving again. He’s suddenly blinking hard though, rubbing at his eyes, because is that a _seagull_ in the backseat of the car next to him? An actual, real life seagull? It’s still there when he looks up again, and, _huh_ , he sincerely hopes the driver of the car knows that it’s there, otherwise he’s going to get a nasty surprise. He stares, captivated, as the cars start to move forward again, the seagull flying around wildly. Well, that's...something. At least he's having a better day than that guy.

Nick tries to tell Reagan about it that night, but when she doesn’t react, he wakes up with a heavy heart, knowing that today is the day: it’s time to end things.

The problem is, he has absolutely no idea how to approach the situation, especially when he’s in so deep. The last two times he had broken up with girlfriends that had lived with him, it had ended badly. There was Caroline, which resulted in a lot of tears, and then there was Jess, which also resulted in a lot of tears. He’s not particularly keen to repeat those experiences so he decides to seek out advice…except, he can’t exactly ask Jess about this after what he knows (can he?), there’s no way in hell he’s ever taking Schmidt and Cece’s relationship advice again, Winston’s at the spa with Furguson this morning, which just leaves…Aly. They haven’t really had any conversations, just the two of them, but…Aly’s a cop. Aly’s responsible. She…she’ll know what to do.

Right?

He takes the coin out of his pocket, rubs it once for good luck, and then wanders off to wake Aly up.

* * *

_Is it time for Step 2? - W_

_What's Step 2? Winston: what. is. step. 2? - Schmidt_


	12. trains and hypothetical sharks

Aly’s not particularly impressed to be woken up by him, but he’s a desperate man and he needs her advice. She tells him that she needs to get more sleep because she’s working nights (as a _prostitute,_ which Nick believes for a good two seconds, eyes wide) and that she doesn’t want to hear what he has to say but—

“—Aly, I’m going to tell you. I need to break up with Reagan, but I don’t know how to.”

She sighs deeply, but she straightens up in bed and looks him straight in the eye, and he counts that as a win. He tells her what happened last night with the seagull; not so much the seagull story itself (though he should have, because it’s a great story and he still can’t believe that he saw a seagull in the backseat of a moving car! A seagull!), but how Reagan reacted to it. Or, rather, how she _didn’t_ react to it. She didn’t get it. He, just, he wants someone that will listen to his seagull stories and that person is clearly not Reagan, and it’s really time to end things. He knows that much.

“I was hoping that you’d tell me how to break up with her.”

“Just pretend you’re an adult and get it over with,” she says, and he sighs, nodding.

She’s right; he just needs to _do it_ , rip off the band-aid and all, but he’s never coped well with these sorts of conversations and something about just sitting Reagan down and telling her that he wants to break up with her is terrifying. He’s not sure he’s brave enough to do that.

“Train’s already left the station, Nick. The longer you wait, the worse it’s going to get.”

He blinks. Train’s already left the station, huh? Train’s…already left the…station.

* * *

Nick finds himself on a train to San Diego, and it’s 100% Aly’s fault for putting that idea in his head (okay, maybe 95% Aly's fault, 5% his). He’d just about gathered enough confidence to attempt to calmly – and maturely – talk to Reagan, walking up to her determinedly, coin in his pocket, but then he'd stumbled upon her yelling down the phone at some pharmaceutical company and he'd chickened out. Reagan had hung up, shooting him a small smile, and he'd tried his hardest to tell her everything. He had tried to tell her that things weren't working out and that he wanted to end their relationship because they wanted different things out of it, but nothing had actually come out of his mouth, his mind struggling to adjust from the Reagan he'd just seen on the phone ("Is the cure a pill for a kick in the balls? Because you're going to need it.") to the Reagan standing in front of him... and suddenly, he’d started sweating and panicking, heart racing, and in typical Nick Miller meltdown style, he’d invited her on a trip to San Diego. Damn it, Aly. (“I feel like I should call San Diego to warn them about you,” she had said, when he told her that _their_ plan backfired and it was all her fault for mentioning trains. “But…you seem convinced.”)

He knows the minute that he sets foot on the train that this might have been one of the stupidest things he’s ever done (and he's done a lot of stupid things in his life on this planet), but he’s in it too deep now to back out. He didn't do this on purpose, he just...panicked. Reagan seemingly hasn’t noticed how nervous he is about the whole thing, following him onto the train with no complaints, but then she’s asking him for details about this trip and, well, there _are_ no details, because he didn’t mean to be getting on a train in the first place. She catches on that there’s something very off about this impromptu beach vacation midway through him casually suggesting that she stay in San Diego whilst he heads back, and his nerves ramp up another 500%. What…what is he doing? Miller, stop this. Stop this right now. This is _not_ how you want to do this. 

He means to just get them some drinks, really, he does, but his feet have a life of their own and before he knows it, he finds himself on the train platform, making eye-contact with a very pissed-looking Reagan still on the train. Well, there you go, Miller; now you don’t need to break up with her, because she is most definitely going to break up with you...as soon as she gets back from San Diego. Problem…solved?

Problem…very much _not_ solved.

Why the hell would you just leave her on the train like that, Miller? All you had to do was sit her down and have one serious conversation with her, and you couldn’t even do that. You're an idiot. A real, goddamn idiot. Nick hails a cab straight back to the loft, announces to everyone that he left Reagan on the train, and then gets caught up in some weird fight about _Winston(s)_ and—damn it, he doesn’t have time for this right now. He quickly excuses himself to his own room, slumps into his chair and stares at all of Reagan’s belongings in his room. He's entirely aware that what he did today was stupid, and irresponsible, and _childish_ , and he feels awful about it. Gut-wrenchingly awful, and he doesn't know how to fix it. It vaguely reminds him of Cece’s (first) wedding when he’d tried so hard to stop Schmidt from sabotaging it for Jess, but Jess hadn’t believed that he was mature enough not to get involved (“It’s exactly the type of thing that you do: a stupid, childish prank!”), and so he’d impulsively done the childish thing and…got involved. He sighs deeply, running a hand over his face, before pulling the coin in his pocket out. He’s exhausted all of a sudden, overwhelmed with guilt, and it’s just—he always _tries_ to do the right thing (to the upmost - not utmost; what's an ut?), really, he does, but he’s just…he’s just (more than) a little bit of a mess, and he’ll always be one. He'd thought he'd grown over the past few days, he thought he'd finally grown up enough to know what he wanted out of his life and his relationships, but maybe, when push comes to shove, maybe he hasn't grown at all.

Nick stares at the coin in his hand, running his fingers over the notches, sighing again; he knows that if Jess was here, she’d be thoroughly disappointed in him for handling this in this way, and it makes him feel even worse about everything because he can vividly picture her dismayed expression in his mind. He's always hated letting Jess down, more than anything. Still, no matter how disappointed she’d be in him, she’d still know what to do to fix it and she'd still help him out. His fingers are suddenly dialling Jess’ number before he can stop himself, and he knows that he shouldn’t be calling Jess anymore because it’s not fair on her when he _knows_ and hasn’t decided what to do about it yet, but he desperately needs to talk to her. He thought he was falling apart the other night, but that was nothing compared to how he feels right now. Right now, he's not only falling apart, but he's well aware that everything is entirely his own fault (yes, not Aly's - this is all on him.) _Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up._ She doesn’t, and so he tries her home phone instead.

Jess’ dad picks up and instantly tries to hang up on him, but he cuts in before he can.

“Look, I’m breaking up with Reagan and it didn’t quite go as planned. I’m in a really bad situation and Jess always says the right thing and I—I really need her.”

Bob feeds him some bizarre, very poorly thought out scenario about being in the ocean with Jess in the presence of sharks, which he tries to get more details about (Bob can’t even tell him which kind of sharks they’re hypothetically in the ocean with, which makes the entire thing simply preposterous if you ask him. He’s read all the shark blogs; it makes a huge difference, okay?), but Bob attempts to hang up on him again when he does.

Nick sighs, running his fingers over the coin again. He pictures Jess in his head, remembers how she’d selflessly saved him from a coyote all those years ago without even thinking twice, remembers how she’d been there for him at his dad’s funeral, holding his hand and singing Elvis songs, remembers how many times she’d dropped everything to help him out of whatever mess he’d gotten himself into, and he suddenly has his answer:

“I don’t know what I would do, but if Jess was with me, I’m sure…I’m sure we’d be okay. She’s got that giant heart, that’s part compass and part flashlight, and…she’s just the greatest person that I’ve ever met.”

Bob seems to accept his answer, even though, _weird ass premise, man_ , but before he says anything further, the door to his bedroom opens and…time to face the music, Miller. Reagan ends their relationship as swiftly as expected given the events of today, and he thinks he should apologise or say something to her - _anything -_ but he ultimately doesn’t, retreating into the kitchen, feeling increasingly terrible with every step that he takes. His head is spinning, and he feels nauseous, and...wasn’t this what you wanted, Miller? No confrontation, no drama. (No, no it isn't.)

Aly finds him moments later, midway through finishing off his fifth beer, giving him a sympathetic smile.

“Why do I feel so terrible?”

She tilts her head, meets his gaze, expression soft.

“Maybe you feel bad because your relationship with Reagan actually meant something to you, and you ended it like it didn’t.”

He purses his lips, nodding. She’s right: his relationship with Reagan _did_ mean something to him and he really shouldn’t have ended it like he did. He’s better than that, and she deserves more. Sure, he'd realised that they wanted different things in the past few days, but she's been nothing but good to him: yeah, maybe she'd hid a few things about herself, like the secret apartment and the promotion, but she'd helped him secure book readings without asking and sat through the entire Socalyalcon VI experience with no complaints. She'd genuinely cared about him, and he'd genuinely cared about her...and what he'd done today? That wasn't fair to her - and to their relationship - in the slightest.

Come on, Miller. Pull whatever dignity you have left together and fix this. She deserves that much, and you're—you're not this guy. You're not a child; not anymore. You did a stupid thing, and now it's time to own up to that and deal with it. Deal with your mistakes. He takes another sip of his beer, then heads back to his bedroom with renewed determination, and this time, when he tries to apologise, he manages to get all the words out. He speaks from the heart; he tells her that he’s really, _really_ sorry and that he regrets what he did, and then he’s outside waving her goodbye as she gets into a cab…and that’s it.

It’s over.

* * *

When he gets back to the loft, he stands in the middle of his room, all alone. With Reagan gone, his room feels eerily empty, aside from the piles of yarn from his Pepperwood board still all over his floor. He's breathing hard, still in disbelief that he'd been such a goddamn idiot today, and standing here by himself quickly becomes too much. He starts sweating, the walls suddenly feel a lot closer, and he needs to get out. He runs a hand through his hair, briskly walking across the hallway and gently pushing the door to Jess’ room open, gingerly lowering himself to sit on her bed. He lets himself take in the familiar surroundings and scent as he forces himself to take slow, deep breaths. Jess’ room has always felt weirdly comforting to him, even though he would never admit it out loud; there’s just something about how colourfulit is and all the bits of craft material and unfinished projects lying around that’s so quintessentially Jess that has always done something to calm his nerves. (He even used to slip in here in the evenings when he couldn’t sleep and just stand in the corner of her room, listening to the steady sound of Jess’ breathing as she slept...shut up, it’s not as creepy as it sounds.)

Tonight, being in Jess’ room doesn’t have quite the same effect, and if anything, he feels more panicky than he did before. He wants everything to go back to normal; he wants Jess home, he wants his best friend back, but… he can’t quite see how that can happen, not when he knows what he knows. It’s overwhelming to think about, and with Reagan gone, he has no valid excuse not to. The thing is, not only has he _just_ broken up with Reagan, but today's just proven to him that he still really needs to get his shit together; it seems wrong to even entertain the possibility that he may or may not have some unresolved feelings for Jess buried deep down when she deserves a thousand times better than him. He couldn't even have one serious conversation, for god's sake. It's just too much, too soon, and he can’t see an easy way out and it’s terrifying. He swallows thickly, rubbing a hand over his face, before getting up and walking down the corridor, gently shutting the door behind him. He catches Aly in Winston’s room, packing her bag for the nightshift. He clears his throat, knocks on the door twice; he needs to talk to someone about this before he starts spiralling again, someone impartial.

“Hey, Aly, can I ask you about one more thing?”

She eyes him warily, but she beckons him inside anyway. He takes a few steps forward, then stops, suddenly hesitant, scratching the back of his neck.

“Sometime tonight would be good,” she quips with a wry smile as several minutes pass without him saying a word, his mind struggling to formulate a way to broach the subject.

“Can you promise me that you won’t tell anyone about what I'm about to tell you? Even Winston?”

She nods slowly, her expression changing from one of mild frustration to one of concern, putting down her bag on the floor as she repositions herself to listen, meeting his gaze.

“I know about Jess,” he says slowly, his words coming out in one breath, almost slurring together. “I know why Jess went to Portland, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

Aly raises an eyebrow, gives him a sympathetic smile, and it’s all he needs to know that his suspicions about Jess were irrefutably correct.

“That’s something that I think you’re going to have to figure out on your own, Nick,” she says.

He nods, because he half-expected this answer, but it feels good to have gotten it off his chest to someone. He starts thinking out loud, eyes glazing over slightly, words spilling from his mouth.

“It’s just, Jess is my best friend, and I feel awful that she felt like she had to get on a flight to get away from me, but I... This is all new to me. I’ve just broken up with Reagan and you of all people know that I'm a real mess, and I just—I don't know what to do."

Aly tilts her head, purses her lips.

“Give yourself some credit, Nick," she says, giving him a gentle, genuine smile. "Yes, you most _definitely_ shouldn't have left Reagan on the train and I swear to god, I'll arrest you if you do something so stupid again, but...you ended it in the right way in the end. I've seen much worse."

He runs a hand through his hair, not really believing her, but he appreciates the sentiment nevertheless.

"Just, don’t overthink it, Nick. Jess knows who you are, flaws and all, and she knew exactly what she was doing when she left. She's strong, and she’ll be fine no matter what you decide, okay? The most important thing is that you figure out what _you_ want and don't get into your head too much.”

He nods, swallows thickly.

“You’re really good at this advice thing,” he tells her, after a beat, shooting her a small, appreciative smile. “I should come to you with my problems more often.”

Aly shakes her head at him fast, eyes wide.

“Please don’t,” she says, though her smile is soft and he knows that she doesn’t really mean it despite her protests. “I’m not sure I could live through another day like today. Just, do me a favour? Please don't leave any more girls on trains.”

* * *

Right, Miller. It's as simple as Aly says: figure out what you want.

_(_ _“Tell me that there isn’t a small part of you that’s scared that I’m too much of a mess and that this thing is a mistake.”)_


	13. seagulls and valet cards

_(He and Reagan broke up… and you know something? I don’t even think he realises, but he’s still in love with you.)_

* * *

The problem is, Nick Miller has always been an overthinker, and he’s not about to stop now despite Aly’s well-intentioned advice. He spends the rest of his evening tossing and turning in his bed, alone and restless, staring up at the cracks in his ceiling. He reflects on his relationship with Reagan: how he was so invested in it at the start and how much he genuinely cared for her, but it just—it wasn’t enough in the end. He couldn’t make it work. He thinks about how he’s relieved to have ended things, because it was starkly obvious that they were different people and wanted different things, but also how horribly he’d processed the whole thing and how he’d let himself panic and do something so stupid as leave her on a damn train. He thinks about what he wants from his life; he thinks about how he just wants someone who’s going to be there for him at his best _and_ his worst, someone who gets him. He wants…he wants what Schmidt and Cece have, he wants what Winston and Aly have, he wants that sort of overwhelming, all-consuming love. It's an odd thing to be admitting to himself as he lies in his bed, entirely alone, but it's the truth. He does; he wants it.

…and then, he thinks about Jess. He thinks about how many voicemails and texts he’s left her since she’s been away, thinks about how she’s the first person that he’s calls whenever he’s in a tight spot ("I'm really 100% falling apart and I really wish you would call me back"), thinks about how he went to Yarn World (also known as; hell on Earth) and made an entire board just to figure out why she went to Portland, thinks about how she really is the greatest person he’s ever met. He thinks about how Jess is always there for him, even if it's something as simple as him being stuck on ideas for his next Pepperwood ("you always come through for me, Jess, to the upmost"), how she’s always seen the best in him ("you're incredible, Nick!"), how much he desperately misses seeing her across the hall, and how he's been religiously carrying around the - _their_ \- coin ever since it magically reappeared in his pocket. He rubs a hand tiredly over his face, mind swirling. He thinks about how hard he’d tried to resist the undeniable attraction between them at first, trying his best to keep things platonic ("we're just two people who want to be friends, but are sometimes attracted to each other"), even though it tore him apart to see her dating other guys. (There may or may not be a dent in his bedroom wall from the number of times he’d punched it after overhearing her giggling across the hall with Genzlinger or, even worse, Sam.) He thinks about how he never believed that he’d actually have a chance with Jess, because she was - and is – so beautiful, and funny, and smart, and he was a walking mess (and still kinda is). He thinks about how, in the end, he just—he couldn’t resist any longer ("it was me, Jess: _I_ couldn't help it), and he’d kissed her, and it was one of the best days – which turned into months – of his life.

Jess is always going to hold a part of his heart, he's sure of that, but is he still _in love_ with her? Like, in love, want to spend the rest of his life with her, kinda love? It's a question that's been at the back of his mind ever since he started piecing together his Pepperwood board, but he hasn't had the courage to properly ask it of himself until now. He sighs deeply, running a hand across his face again. Get it together, Miller. The stakes are indisputably high this time, and there’s a genuine possibility that Jess might never come back if you blow it again.

He needs to be sure before he does anything rash. He can't screw this up like he did with everything today. …but how?

* * *

_Winston, can you explain this parcel that you’ve mailed us? – Schmidt_

_Well, it was actually meant for Nick, but Aly said I’d be “pushing him too far” if I gave it to him, so I figured you might want it instead. – W_

_Why on Earth would you think that I’d want a life-sized puzzle of Jess’ face in my house?! – Schmidt_

_Wait, so…you did the puzzle? How was it? Did you enjoy it? – W_

_There were only six pieces, Winston! It wasn’t exactly difficult. – Schmidt_

_Again, why did you think I’d want this? And…why exactly were you going to give this to Nick? – Schmidt_

_It’s all part of the plan, Schmidt. All part of the plan. – W_

_You’re an idiot, you know that? There is no plan. I’m throwing it in the trash. – Schmidt_

_You’re throwing…Jess in the trash? – W_

_Not Jess, puzzle Jess! – Schmidt_

* * *

The answer comes to him at the crack of dawn several days later, and he’s suddenly stumbling out of bed, still half asleep, fumbling for his laptop underneath the mountain of yarn on his desk. He tugs it free, heart racing, breathing a sigh of relief as he sees Jess' icon blinking green, indicating that she's online. He hasn’t seen her face since the day she went to Portland, but—he needs to for this; he needs to see her.

“Nick? Is everything… are you okay?”

He smiles despite himself as he sees her face swim into view. He's really missed her, more than he's ever missed anyone, and it hasn't even been that long since he last saw her; not really. Her eyes are laced with concern, but he guesses that’s not that surprising because he must look like a real mess right now, having woken up mere seconds ago. Jess tilts her head at him expectantly, and he suddenly clears his throat, realising that she's waiting for him to answer.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, waving a hand at the screen dismissively.

She frowns slightly, biting her lip, but she waits for him to continue. He knows that he should probably tell her that he broke up with Reagan last week, but he can't quite find the words to do so; instead, he takes a slow breath in an attempt to settle the turning in his gut before carrying out his plan (he really should have had breakfast before having this conversation; Millers don't function well on empty stomachs), his words coming out less eloquently than he’d hoped.

“I, uh, I called to tell ya about something that happened to me the other day,” he tells her, watching transfixed as she inhales deeply in response, eyes widening ever so slightly.

He holds her gaze for a moment through the screen, knowing that this was the right thing to do. He needs to be sure about his feelings for Jess before he can decide what to do about it, and this—this is the perfect test.

_You can do this, Miller_.

”I saw a seagull in the backseat of a moving car,” he eventually gets out, all in one breath, eyes fixed on hers, fingers searching in his pocket for the coin.

He sees her blink once, then twice, clearly caught by surprise by his statement, but she quickly recovers as she registers he’s entirely serious, pasting a soft smile onto her face.

“Okay, I have so many questions for you,” she tells him, words tumbling out in a rush, blue eyes gleaming.

His fingers find the coin, gripping onto it tightly, relishing the feel of the cool metal in his palm.

“How large was this seagull? Did the driver of the car know that it was in the backseat? What colour was it? The seagull, I mean, not the car. Was it stationary or was it flying around? And did the—Nick, are you…are you sure you’re okay? You’re looking at me weirdly.”

Nick shakes his head at her, realises that he’s grinning widely. This is precisely what he wants; someone who's not only going to listen to his seagull stories, but actually ask _questions._ Jess gets it; Jess gets him. ...and okay, yeah, he can admit it to himself: he’s always been a little bit in love with Jess, ever since the first time he’d seen her, clumsily bumping into things outside of the loft without her glasses on. 

"Hey, Jess," he says, clearing his throat, running his free hand through his hair, messing it up even further, the other hand still clutching the coin in his pocket. "You know, uh, you know that you're my best friend, right? I mean it, Jess; you really are."

She smiles at that, and it's a genuine, wide smile, eyes warm, and when she speaks again, she sounds more like herself than he thinks she's sounded in weeks.

"I'm not sure Schmidt's going to be happy with you saying that," she teases, eyes bright. "...now, tell me about the seagull."

(He’s still in love with her, and he reaches over to connect that loose thread on his board as soon as he hangs up the phone.)

* * *

_Did Nick really break up with Reagan? Is he doing okay? – Jess xox_

_Yeah, he definitely did, and it wasn’t pretty. Why? – Cece xox_

_He just called me to talk about seagulls... – Jess xox_

_You know how Nick is; I’d ignore it. – Cece xox_

_Well, that’s exactly why I’m worried. I know Nick. It wasn’t just a throwaway conversation, there was something else there. – Jess xox_

* * *

After he ends his conversation with Jess, he gets into his car and starts driving. He doesn't know where he's going, but he just knows that he needs to get out of the loft because Jess' empty room is too close and it's almost suffocating. He thinks that he knows how he feels about Jess now, deep down, but he still doesn't know what to do about it. He doesn't know how to deal with the situation without messing it up and panicking and...inevitably leaving her on a train. All he knows is that this time, he has to do things right. He can't lose her.

He drives for hours and hours, head spinning. He drives until he knows that he has no other choice but to _stop,_ because his eyes are starting to go a bit blurry and he’s still hasn't had breakfast and it's almost lunchtime. Nick pulls over, staggers out, and crosses the familiar road at the designated crosswalk (because, yeah, definitely not making that mistake again), walking into the restaurant in front of him in a little bit of a daze. It’s the same restaurant where he took Jess on their first (kinda) date and he hasn’t stepped foot in it again since they broke up. There’s no real reason why he hasn’t, except, one, the food is stupidly expensive and he’s currently very underdressed, and two, it just…it felt wrong to be in here without Jess. He heads straight to the bar, but as he does so, he almost walks straight into a man walking in the opposite direction. He starts apologising, but doesn’t look up, continuing walking, but then—

“Nick?”

He turns, startled, mouth quirking slightly as he realises he’s just bumped into his favourite of all of Jess’ exes; one of the only men he’s ever loved. What are the chances? Russell looks him up and down, a slight grimace on his face as he takes his appearance in. He doesn’t blame the guy: he’s sure he looks like a mess, he’s been driving aimlessly for hours in the same clothes he slept in, and _damn it,_ he wishes the universe would have told him that he’d be bumping into Russell today because he would have actually made an effort and put on the fanciest suit he owns (or, maybe, the sweater that Russell had gifted to him that remains the only item of clothing in his closet that he actually folds religiously).

“What are you doing here?” Nick asks, clearing his throat as the silence goes on a little too long, and people are starting to give them weird looks.

Russell startles, then recovers, tilting his head towards the bar. Nick follows him, watching - and then badly imitating - as he coolly leans over the counter and orders a whiskey on the rocks.

“I'm just…processing my latest divorce,” he says after a beat, as he takes a sip of his drink. “You?”

“Same, kinda. Not the divorce bit, but just…processing a lot of things,” Nick replies, as he leans forward on the counter, resting his elbows on the bar, just staring straight ahead.

He’s not really sure why he’s having drinks with _Russell_ right now, but Russell doesn’t seem to be protesting and Nick doesn’t want to walk away. He might never get this chance again and he'd be damned if he gave up this opportunity.

“Well…I can’t say I’m surprised,” Russell says, and Nick’s suddenly frowning, whipping his head around to squint at him, because what the hell does that mean?

He opens his mouth to protest, but it turns out that Russell's not done, smoothly speaking over him.

“When I bumped into you on your date with Jess that night, you always struck me as someone who was never sure of their feelings.”

Nick tilts his head, remembering. Sleeping Nick (and okay, sometimes Awake Nick) had spent many hours imagining what it would be like to go on a date with Jess ever since she walked into the loft, and when she’d actually said yes to him, he’d been so excited, and giddy, but most of all… _scared_. He’d been terrified that she’d realise that she’d made a huge mistake and he was too scared to tell her how he really felt; how overwhelmingly intense his feelings for her had been…and so, when Russell had shoved a valet card into his hand and asked them both to define their relationship, he’d panicked, doodled a picture of Russell and captioned it ‘ _DONUT KNOW_ ’. The whole thing seems silly, looking back, but if he was in the same situation now, and Russell suddenly handed him a valet ticket and asked him to write how he felt, he’s not sure he would manage to come up with a better answer.

“What did Jess write? On the card?”

Russell looks him in the eye for a few seconds, then shakes his head.

“Why does it matter what Jess wrote if you didn’t know how you felt yourself? It's time to grow up, Nick.”

He tilts his head. He does need to grow up, everything with Reagan and the train proved that, but the thing is, Russell’s not entirely correct. He _did_ know how he felt about Jess back then and he's never been afraid of the strength of his feelings for her; not really. No, what he's always been afraid of is _himself._ He's always been afraid that he wasn't going to be able to be the kind of guy that Jess deserved.

Huh.

He thinks about the aftermath of their relationship; he recalls about how badly he’d blown it, how he’d panicked when things were going so well, and how no matter how hard he tried to do the right thing, in the end, he couldn’t prove to her that he was worth it. ("Why is nothing I do ever good enough for you? What do you want from me? I'm doing everything I can here!") He thinks about how devastated he was when they broke up, how he barely survived it, and how he really—he really can't go through that twice. He can't bear to see her cry over him again. He remembers that the main reason that they’d broken up in the first place was because they’d realised that they were different people who wanted different things, and…isn’t that the exact same reason why he’d just broken up with Reagan? Also...speaking of Reagan, it hasn't even been a whole week since they broke up, and surely it's horribly unfair for him to even be thinking about Jess in that context when everything's so fresh?

Plus...while he’d figured out that Jess went to Portland because she had feelings for him, what did that really mean? How does he know that she left for Portland because she wanted to get some space from him and Reagan, and not because she desperately wanted to get over him because she knew they’d never work together and it’d be a mistake? (He'd once told her that he’d prefer to be a long-haul trucker on goddamn Mars than live a simple, happy life with her on Earth, for god's sake!) How does he know that she hasn't already gotten over those feelings for him? How does he know that she isn't on her way back home right now, ready to carry on life in 4D as normal? (She _was_ all upbeat and smiley when they spoke on the phone earlier, a far cry from the distant, hesitant Jess he'd been in contact with over the past few weeks... What did that mean?) He bites his lip, scratching the back of his neck, realising that despite thinking that he’d finally figured out what was going on with Jess, he doesn’t actually know anything at all. There’s a big unknown there that’s very real and very scary.

...but if he loves her, if he's _in love_ with her, isn't it worth the risk?

_(I can’t just jump into something if I don’t know what’s going to happen. I never have been that guy. I don’t care how bad I want to do it: I don’t do it.)_


	14. book readings and a strange-looking vest

Nick doesn’t tell anyone about the thoughts and arguments swirling in his head, especially not anyone in 4D. It’s not that he’s purposefully trying to keep anything a secret as such, but more that if he says it out loud and admits that he thinks that he might have feelings for Jess (again), then it makes everything real and he doesn’t think he’s quite ready to deal with the consequences yet. He pretends not to hear when Winston keeps name-dropping Jess every other sentence, ignores the fact that Furguson won’t stop coming into his room and sticking his head into the(ir sex) mug that’s still on his desk, politely excuses himself when he spots Cece and Schmidt hanging in the loft FaceTiming Jess (they’re making him very much regret helping them get their own house: go home, please!), and walks down the hallway sideways to avoid having to look at Jess’ bedroom door. He knows that it’s not the best coping mechanism, but it stops him from overthinking (too much) and that’s a win in his book.

The thing is, he’s…torn. When he thinks about what he’d realised that he wanted from a relationship – someone that was going to share all the important stuff with him – he can’t deny that Jess fits the criteria perfectly, and he can’t deny that his heart clenches in a way that’s very visceral whenever he pictures her in his mind… but, at the same time, he vividly remembers how badly things ended the first time, and how, no matter how much they loved each other (and he did, he _really did_ ), they just didn’t work together.

(“Why do you feel like you need to fix me? It’s like you think you know better.” // “I like you the way you are, I’m just asking you to grow a little.” // “Are we ever going to get to the point where you stop working on me? Instead of changing me, maybe once, Jess, see it my way.” // “You had a very fun day put together, and look, that’s amazing _for you_. You’re not a guy who plans things _._ ” // “We never agree on anything, ever, Nick. I want to know we’re going in the same direction, that we’re on the same page.” // “I just want you to take a little more responsibility. Just a little bit more.” // “Nick, if I was always honest with you, then we’d never stop fighting.”)

He knows he’s changed since then and that he’s not the same person now, but he recently left Reagan on a damn train instead of breaking up with her maturely, and he—he hasn't changed enough; he has a whole bunch of growing up still to do. The thing is, he _wants_ to grow up and he _wants_ to be the guy for Jess, but he’s just not. He's not that guy. He’d blown it horribly the first time, made mistake after mistake, and he can’t do that again; not to him, not to Jess. They’re just not meant to be together, not in that way, and that’s—that’s okay. (It has to be okay.) Jess means the world to him, and he can’t mess their (best) friendship up for something that he’s not sure he 100% believes in. (He’s not sure he 100% believes in himself.) He’s found it difficult enough over the past few weeks with limited contact with Jess, and he can’t imagine what it would be like if he screwed things up, did something reckless and stupid, and she decided that she wanted to stay in Portland for good. No, things are better this way. She’s gotten over him once and if she still has those feelings for him now, she can get over them again... and him? Well, he’s always been great at hiding his feelings for Jess; it’s second nature at this point. He’ll be fine. Great, even.

“Hello? Is this Nick Miller?”

“Yes, this is Nick. Who are you and why are you calling?”

“I’m from Book Bisque, the bookstore? I’m calling about the reading that we’ve got you scheduled for next week.”

“I didn’t schedule a reading,” he starts, fingers ready to hang up the phone, then remembers that Reagan had said that she had after their fight as a sort of peace offering. “No—actually, yeah, I did.”

“Well, that’s very reassuring. That's just great,” the voice down the phone says, tone laced with sarcasm, and even though he can’t see the guy, he knows that he’s on the receiving end of an eye-roll.

“Look, I don’t know how this is at all possible after the absolute disaster of your last reading, but there seem to be a lot of people interested in your book. I need you to confirm that you’re going to show up and actually read your book this time. No drama.”

He blinks.

“What?”

“You heard me,” he says, and yeah, Nick can sense a second eye-roll and he instinctively frowns in response, mouth curving downwards.

“When you say ‘a lot of people’…”

“We’re expecting a full house,” he tells him, matter-of-factly, and Nick gulps in response, his chest tightening. “Be there, _please_.”

The phone line goes dead, and he’s left clutching his phone to his ear, his chest still uncomfortably tight, the first beads of sweat starting to form. He'd barely made it through the first reading when he’d had both Reagan _and_ Jess by his side, patiently encouraging him even though he probably didn’t deserve it, and now he’s going to have to read his book to a _lot of people_ without…either of them? Alone? He slaps himself on both cheeks, forces himself to take a deep breath, though his anxiety is already in overdrive, and he thinks he’s seconds away from hyperventilating. He wants his book to do well, of course he does, and the rational part of his brain knows that he should be thankful that he’s been given a second opportunity to publicise it and ecstatic that people are apparently interested, but…he’s never been great at believing in himself (some would say he’s unquestionably awful at it). The thing is, although he’s never admitted this out loud to anyone, The Pepperwood Chronicles is not just any book; it’s not just a New Orleans story about a guy fighting with the alligator within, it’s about…it’s about him, and Jess, and their relationship. The fact that he’s sold more than 50 copies of it now and people are actually _reading_ his words is terrifying and makes him feel vulnerable in a way that he’s not particularly comfortable with.

Miller, stop; breathe. All that fighting talk about wanting to grow up? Well, this is your chance. It’s just a book reading and you can do this; not for Reagan, not for Jess, not for anyone else. No, do this for _you_.

* * *

In the end, he turns up at the book reading alone. He’s visibly nervous and anxious, and he keeps glancing at the door, wondering if he can bolt before anyone notices, but…it's been ten minutes and he’s managed to stay put so far, and that’s something, isn’t it? That’s…growth. He’d mentioned the reading to Schmidt and Winston the day before, but both of them had more important things to do (such as, you know, _work_ ) and had politely apologised, patting him on the back encouragingly, and Cece was apparently ‘busy’, whatever that meant…so, yeah, he’s alone, no support system, just himself. He taps his foot impatiently as he waits for his name to be announced, his tapping getting increasingly fast and the back of his shirt getting increasingly damp as more and more people filter into the store, some of whom are dressed in their own Pepperwood costumes. (He's kinda jealous of that kid in the front row's fake moustache, if he's honest.) Huh, guess the guy on the phone really wasn’t kidding about the interest…and that’s a good thing, right?

... _Right_? 

Pull it together, Miller. This is your book; all you have to do is read the words on the page. Simple.

He almost calls Jess before he goes up to the front, suddenly overcome with an urge to hear her soothing, encouraging voice in his ear, but in the end, he just about manages to stop himself. This is something that he has to do alone to prove to himself that he’s good enough, and that he can be a writer; and a successful one, at that. He slowly shuffles towards the podium, eyes half-closed, forcing himself to take a series of slow, deep breaths.

(“Stop cutting yourself off at the knees like a selfish coward. You’re a writer, and a damn good one at that, but you’re just too scared to admit it to yourself.”)

Come on, Miller.

Believe in yourself, for once in your life.

Nick reaches into his pocket for the coin, rubs his fingers over it for good luck, and then he starts reading, and it’s…surprisingly okay. The crowd are listening to every word, gasping at all the right points, laughing at all the jokes, and it feels _good_. These people are definitely not the audience that he’d intended for his book (he’s not trying to stereotype anyone, but he’s pretty confident that none of these people are blue-collar nautical workers on the coastline of Maine), but they seem to be getting it; they seem to understand. He feels weirdly at home up here, _comfortable_ , even. He starts to get into the swing of things, even putting on his New Orleans accent to give them more of that authentic New Orleans flavour, and look at you, Miller! You’re doing it. He gets to the end, beams at the applause, half in disbelief, half in genuine pride in himself for not screwing this up, and then opens up the floor to some questions without being prompted. He’s on a high, and he's confident, and this feels more right than anything he’s ever done in his life, except then—

“—When are Pepperwood and Jessica Night going to get together?”

Nick blinks hard, comes back down to reality a bit, an image of Jess flashing in his subconscious.

“That, uh, that is a great question,” he says, to buy time, then slowly starts speaking, hesitantly voicing all the fears and thoughts that have been swirling around in his head lately. Being able to hide behind the aliases makes it easier somehow, less real.

“I’ll just cut to it guys, uh, Pepperwood and Jessica Night will never get together. Never.”

There’s an instant murmuring that runs like a wave through the crowd, whispered protests, and he immediately raises his hands to gesture for everyone to _stop_ ; they don’t get it; it’s not that simple. Adult relationships are really…complicated.

“I’m sorry. You guys, stop. It’s just, look, these characters, they—they are based off real people, and the real people are just fundamentally different. They don’t work together,” he says, and he hates himself for saying it, heart clenches in a way that’s more than a little painful, but he knows it’s the truth.

It’s just not meant to be, and he needs to accept that and...move on. (“It’s just never going to happen. You just got to forget about it. Move on from it.”) He pauses as he scans the crowd, his eyes fleetingly catching a girl in red running away and wait, is that—is that _Jess_? Or is he just imagining it to be Jess because he’s talking about Jessica Night? And if…if it was Jess, why would she be running out, unless... 

He sighs deeply, frowns, takes a deep breath, not entirely sure if what he just saw was a hallucination or reality, and if he’s honest, he doesn’t know which one he’d rather it be. He closes his eyes briefly, swallowing, refocusing his thoughts as he notices the crowd is still staring up at him expectantly. (Whoa, this crowd is intense.) The simple truth is, most of what happened when they were kids is his fault; if he’d been a bit more responsible, a bit _better_ , built that stupid toy on time like she'd asked, maybe it wouldn’t have ended the way it did.

“Pepperwood, he blew it. Sometimes you don’t get another chance, you know, to fix the mistake.”

Nick answers the rest of the questions in a bit of a daze, his mind still stuck on Jess. He’s sure he’s making the right decision here, for the both of them, but if he really believes that, why the hell does his chest ache so much? (Is he…having a heart attack? Is this what having a heart attack feels like?! If so, _damn it_ , he needs someone to clear his browser history ASAP and he needs to write a note to tell the person who finds his body not to take him to Doctor Sam's hospital.) He desperately needs to call Jess though; he needs to know whether the person he saw running out of the store was actually her. He needs to know if she’s home, and if she _is_ home, what that means.

“You’re wrong, you know.”

Nick startles, turning around. The girl in the strange-looking vest who had asked the Pepperwood/Jessica Night question is standing in front of him, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.

“Uh, okay, cool,” he says, giving her a half shrug, turning back around again, tugging his phone out of his pocket. He really needs to call Jess.

“You’re wrong about Pepperwood and Jessica Night,” the girl continues, cutting over him, arms still crossed, looking up at him with an indignant expression on her face, and yeah, she’s not going away anytime soon. He doesn't have time for this; he needs to call Jess!

“I know Pepperwood blew it and he let Schmith escape, but even though Pepperwood and Jessica Night are different people, they clearly love each other, and…doesn’t he deserve a happy ending?”

Nick squints at her, tilts his head, fingers pausing midway through dialling Jess’ number. She stares straight back at him, her eyes searching.

“What would you do?” He asks slowly, voice a little raw, not entirely sure why he’s fallen so low as to ask a goddamn _child_ (in one of the worst vests he’s ever seen, not that he’s an expert on vests, or anything) for advice, but hey, he’s here now and he guesses he has nothing to lose. “What would you do if you were me—I mean, uh, if you were Julius Pepperwood?”

She raises her eyebrows higher at him, giving him an odd look, and he’s weirdly anxious as he waits for her response, holding his breath, unable to look away or take the words back.

“I’d talk to Jessica Night and fight for her,” she says slowly, and the knowing expression on her face makes him think that she knows what he’s really referring to… that, and his unsubtle slip-up. “I think she’d understand and she’d forgive him for letting Schmith get away. I know that you said that not everyone gets a chance to fix their mistakes, but it’s your book: you get to choose the ending.”

He nods slowly. Despite her (frankly, _bizarre_ ) fashion choices, he knows that she’s right, in a way. It’s his life and he’s the one that’s going to have to live with his decisions. Maybe it really is as simple as just talking to Jess, throwing all caution to the wind, and telling her what’s been going on inside his head, instead of thinking so much and making messy pinboards; maybe it really is that easy. It’s just—he’s—he’s _afraid._ He’s not sure whether it’s the fear of rejection, the fear of messing up the friendship that they’ve carefully cultivated since their breakup, the fear of not being able to live up to the sort of guy that she deserves, or a mixture of all three, but the fear is very real and borderline crippling, and he _can’t_.

Not yet.

Not like this.


	15. publishers and burritos

Nick heads out of the store on a mission to call Jess as soon as girl-in-strange-vest leaves him alone (he signs her book “kill yourself”, and he’s immediately gratified as she beams up at him, clearly understanding the reference). The only problem is, he’s immediately interrupted by a guy trying to introduce himself and—yeah, he really has to call Jess, so he really doesn’t have time for this.

“Hi, I’m Merle Streep,” the man says as he approaches. Does it look like he cares? He’s kinda busy here. He has important phone calls to make and all that. “Okay. Um, I’m an editor and I publish children’s books so I wanted—

“—Oh, congratulations to you. What would you like me to do about that?” Nick says, cutting him off abruptly.

Why does everyone want to talk to him all of a sudden? He did the reading, didn’t he? He’s been talking for the past hour and, frankly, he’s talked more than enough for one day.

“Uh, I’m about to make a call, so…nice to meet you, Merle Streep.” (What a goofy name. Merle? Merle _Streep_?)

He doesn’t wait for a response, switching his focus back onto his phone, and presses dial, his heart twisting uncomfortably in his chest. It’s just, if it really was Jess at his reading, why would she run out so abruptly, without even saying hello? And…more importantly, where was she running to? Back to Portland? Away…from him? Jess answers on the second ring before he’s fully convinced himself that it _was_ her and spirals any further, though his heart is already beating weirdly fast. He cuts to the question on his lips straight away, not bothering with any pleasantries or small talk, because he has to know if it was her or not before he goes insane. (What a way to die that would be.)

“Hey, this is crazy, but were you just at my reading? You’re not in L.A., are ya?”

“No, I’m in Portland with my dad.”

Nick nods, slowly lets out the breath he was holding, more than a little relieved by her answer. Get it together, Nick. This is typical Miller behaviour: overthinking and worrying over absolutely nothing. Jess is safely in Portland, and he still has time to get his shit together and figure out how to smooth everything over and bring Jess home. It’s all going to work out. It has to.

“How did the reading go?” Jess asks, and now that he’s momentarily stopped worrying about all the _what ifs_ and the Jess he apparently hallucinated, he can feel his mood lifting, a smile creeping across his face as he remembers the past hour.

He’d gotten through the reading all by himself and enjoyed it! People had applauded for him once he'd finished! He didn’t have a meltdown and hide away in the children’s corner!

“Couldn’t have gone better. I felt weirdly comfortable up there,” he tells her, and part of him wishes that she actually _had_ been there just so that she could have seen him; he wishes that he could have shared the moment with her.

“I’m so proud of you,” Jess says, and it’s a simple statement, a simple string of words, but it makes him smile a little wider nevertheless.

There’s a long pause then, that quickly becomes borderline awkward, and it throws him a bit off balance, considering that their last conversation had been free-flowing, easy back and forth exchanges about seagulls. Did something—did something change since then? His mind flashes back to what the girl-in-strange-vest had just said to him. He’s not ready to go down _that_ path, per se, but maybe she has a point and he needs to just talk more; get everything out in the open. If Jess left for Portland because she didn’t want to see him and Reagan together, well, that’s not really a problem anymore, is it? So…if he just tells her that, maybe she’ll come home? Maybe fixing everything is as simple as that?

Nick takes a deep breath, then another, and channels the spirit of Julius Pepperwood, forcing himself to get the words out:

“Reagan and I broke up.”

He regrets it immediately though, because suddenly, Jess is hanging up on him, spouting some story about her dad spraining his thumb trying to get off a couch. He closes his eyes briefly in confusion, frowning hard, because bad liars can sense _bad lies_ (is that a thing?) and he’s very confident that Jess has just told him a spectacularly bad lie. What the hell just happened?! Why would she have that reaction to him breaking up with Reagan? That doesn’t—that doesn’t make any sense? Damn it, he knew he shouldn’t have taken advice from a child. Way to go, Miller. 

He’s still staring at his phone in bewilderment when the guy from before with the weird-ass name approaches him again (seriously, he does one reading and suddenly he’s a celebrity? What is happening?) He rolls his eyes _hard_ , raises his hands in irritation, fleetingly wondering if he can pretend to make another call and escape what is likely to be an awkward, uncomfortable conversation. Jess just hung up on him, and he really needs to focus on that before it’s too late. He hasn’t seen her properly in weeks now, and he’s not sure he can do this for much longer; it’s becoming all-consuming, taking over his life. The guy’s already started speaking to him though, gesturing in his direction, eyes earnest, and—wait a second. Did he just say that he wanted to…

“—You’d like to talk to me about _what_?”

“Publishing your book,” he repeats.

“What are you, some kind of a—a publisher?”

There’s surely…no way, right? An actual _publisher_? An actual publisher wants to publish his book? Julius Pepperwood? The Pepperwood Chronicles? The Pepperwood Chronicles by Nick Miller?

The guy with the silly name nods, reaches into his pocket.

“Yeah, that’s what my card… I was trying to give you my card, but you…”

Nick blinks, resists the urge to slap himself on both cheeks. Is this…real life? It seems like it (Jess hanging up on him _definitely_ felt real), but the fact that someone actually wants to publish his book is so far from his image of reality that he’s not 100% convinced.

“You want to publish my book?” He asks again, just to be sure.

“Yeah.”

Nick accepts the business card that he’s given (and hey, look at that, his name really _is_ Merle Streep) and follows him to the side of the store, more than a little shell-shocked.

“Drop by my office tomorrow morning if you can,” Merle says, expression more than a little weirded out at his behaviour (it’s not his fault: he’s been on real rollercoaster of emotions today).

“I think that The Pepperwood Chronicles could sell really well, particularly amongst the teen audience, and I’d really like to talk to you about potential publishing strategies for it,” he continues, which Nick grimaces a bit at because, again, teens are really _not his intended audience._ Still, if this means that his book gets published (like, with one of those fancy hardbacks covers that wouldn't look out of place on Russell's book shelf), he’s more than happy for the teenagers to have every last page of it. “I have a few suggestions for possible sequels, but we can talk about that when we meet.”

“Yeah, that, uh, that sounds great, man,” he says, then winces at himself, and makes it worse. “Sorry, not ‘man’, well, you are a man, at least, I think?”

Merle gives him a weird look, almost looks like he regrets the offer to meet tomorrow, but then he nods once at him and leaves without another word.

Nick stands in place for another minute, staring into space, and now he really does slap himself on both cheeks, eyes squeezed tightly shut. He keeps his eyes closed for a moment, before taking a deep breath and gingerly opening one eye, hoping that this wasn’t all some cruel hallucination…

…and nope, it’s real life. Look at that, Miller. You believed in yourself for once; you got in front of that podium, read your book to a whole crowd without panicking or hiding in a child-sized plastic house, and now—now you might get to be a published author. You’re doing it; you’re finally doing the grown-up stuff.

* * *

Nick tries to call Jess back as soon as he leaves the store, because one, he has no idea why she’d hung up on him earlier and two, a (very real) publisher wants to publish his book and he wants to share the good news, but she doesn’t pick up. He frowns at the screen, redialling immediately. Jess has always been his biggest supporter when it comes to Pepperwood; she was the one that pushed him to go to New Orleans in the first place and inspired him to write, she was the one who helped him make the prototypes (and yeah, okay, got a _little_ high on glue with him), and she was the one who put copies of Pepperwood in her school library and gushed about it to everyone who would listen. He wants to tell her that she was right to have put her faith in him and that he might have finally found his path in life. He might finally have a plan that doesn’t involve being a truck driver on Mars.

(“Maybe it’s crazy to talk about being an intergalactic truck driver, but what I think is crazier is trying to plan every single detail of our future.”)

Jess doesn’t pick up though, not on the second call, or the third, or the fourth, and the back of his neck starts prickling, a sense of déjà vu travelling down his spine. He’s frowning hard as he types out a quick text message, his mood instantly dampened.

_Hey Jess, it’s Nick, though I’m sure you already know that. Please call me back; I have something important that I need to tell you. – Nick_

She doesn’t call him back, and he doesn’t understand why and what makes things worse is that this time, he’s not convinced that a Pepperwood board is going to bring him the answers. He sighs audibly, rubbing a hand over his face. He just—he doesn’t get it. Didn’t Reagan moving out mean that life in 4D was back to _before_? Why would Jess hang up the phone on him like that?

There are only two ways out of this mess and inevitable spiral that he can see, and it’s either one, getting drunk (but even for him, it’s a bit early for that), or two, seeking out a good, honest burrito and eating his feelings. Burrito truck, it is.

* * *

Once he’s safely gotten a burrito in hand, mouth already watering, he slumps himself down on a table, unwrapping it eagerly. His mind is still half-fixed on Jess’ odd behaviour, but the more he looks at the burrito, the more those thoughts temporarily fade away. This is what he needs: to focus on this burrito and clear his head. 

“Nick?”

He glances up, way up, and then pulls a face as he recognises the person towering in front of him, wiping his mouth roughly on the back of his hand.

“Oh, uh, hey,” he says, leaning away slightly as Robby’s already pushing their tables together, inching his chair a little too close to him. He likes Robby, sure, but did he say that he could sit next to him? _Nope_.

“How have you been, Nick?” Robby asks, holding a burrito of his own, all smiles and wide eyes as he settles himself beside him. “I guess I haven’t seen you and the others since Jess and I, you know…”

Nick pulls a face that’s half sympathetic, half repulsed at the memory.

“Discovered you were cousins?” He supplies, probably unhelpfully (not sure you ever really forget a revelation like that), but hey.

Out of all the (many) possible scenarios that he had envisioned for Jess and Robby, breaking up because they discovered that they were _related_ wasn’t one of them. He shudders again at the thought: no, thank you.

“Yeah, uh, that. It’s okay though; I think we were probably too similar anyway—not just because we were related, well, maybe it was because of that, but, you know, we just liked…all the same things. Too similar.” Robby says, in between taking a huge bite of his burrito that he barely manages to get down.

He coughs, a little awkwardly, as he swallows and takes a swig of water. (Nick averts his eyes slightly, because yeah, that’s not a pretty sight; not that he’s any better, let’s be honest. He’s 90% sure he has sauce dripping down the side of his chin, but he’s invested enough in this magnificent burrito that he doesn’t really care). He tilts his head, considering that statement.

“Too…similar?”

(“The real people are just fundamentally different. They don’t work together.”)

Robby nods, shrugs his shoulders.

“A relationship needs differences to survive, otherwise you’ll—you’ll go on a hike, end up stranded in a cave and you won’t even get to see a waterfall,” he says, in a rush, and Nick’s not entirely sure what he’s on about now but Robby seems sufficiently passionate about it so he doesn’t interrupt and lets him continue. (Also, this burrito really is _great_ , maybe one of the best he’s ever had, and the more Robby speaks, the more time he has to eat. He’s always been excellent at math.)

“It’s why Cece and I worked so well together; her weaknesses were my strengths and vice versa.”

Nick pulls a long face at that, swallowing and reaching out to pat his shoulder sympathetically.

“I think that ship has long sailed, buddy,” he tells him.

Robby tilts his head in acknowledgement.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he replies, though it's a touch dejected. (He's _definitely_ right; he’s not letting Cece and Schmidt break up, partly because they’re his friends but mostly because he helped them get a damn house _that they’re not even using_.) “Anyway, enough about me, how are you and, um, Reagan, was it?”

Nick leans back in his chair, pursing his lips.

“We broke up,” he says, with a slow shrug. “We were, uh, just too…different.”

Robby winces, and they fall into a companiable silence for a few moments, both taking another messy bite of burrito.

“I suppose it’s a fine balance,” Robby continues once they’ve both swallowed, and he nods slowly in agreement.

He’s been so fixated on the many differences between him and Reagan – and lately, him and Jess – that he’d started to convince himself that relationships don’t work between people that are different, but Robby’s right: it _is_ a balance. Take his relationship with Kai, for example; she was too similar to him, and it ended up in both of them lazing around doing absolutely nothing. It was great for a while, sure, but it got old quickly. (He didn’t think there was such a thing as too many naps until he met Kai.) He needs to find someone who’s different _enough_ ; someone who’s going to encourage him to brave the world outside of the loft and achieve things with his life (“Nick, you’re incredibly talented. You can do this.”) but also relate to him and let him talk about all the stupid, small stuff (“Okay, I have so many questions for you. How large was this seagull?”). Maybe, just maybe, fundamental differences don’t have to be a dealbreaker if it’s with the right person.

He thinks back to his relationship with Jess: he knows that he blew it because he was young, and stupid, and _irresponsible_ , but he’d gotten a bank account, hadn’t he? (That he still uses! Sometimes. He still doesn’t believe in wallets, but let’s not focus on that right now.) He’d planned an (epic, if he says so himself) birthday surprise for her back when they were dating that even Schmidt, of all people, had said he was proud of him for. He’d started paying his taxes. He'd bought himself a nice suit (that wasn't from his high-school prom). He’d moved from being a mere bartender to bar owner. He'd stopped burying all his feelings and started addressing them (albeit mostly in his head, but it's a start). He’d finished an entire novel that people actually seem to like. Yeah, sure, he has his slip-ups now and then (namely: train incident that he will never forgive himself for), but if he really looks hard at himself, directs the tiniest bit of self-belief inwards, he guesses he's not the same young, stupid, irresponsible guy he was anymore. Maybe their breakup was not so much because they were fundamentally different _people_ , but just at fundamentally different stages of their lives…and maybe, over the years, they’re a lot closer now than he’s letting himself believe. Maybe now, him and Jess are just different enough. ( _Maybe_.)

“Do you want to know what I really think?” Robby asks, peering over at him.

Nick shrugs, tilts his head slightly in a gesture for him to continue as he takes another bite of his burrito, mind still spinning. He took advice from a child today, so whatever Robby's about to say can't be worse than that.

“I think we just have to find someone who’s going to eat the raisins out of our trail mixes, if you know what I mean.”

Nick blinks, frowns, quickly swallows. Frankly, he doesn’t completely understand what Robby means, but he’s more than a little offended all the same.

“—What’s wrong with raisins?”

“What’s _right_ with raisins?”

They stare at each other, equal expressions of surprise on both of their faces, and then:

“Do you know who else hates raisins?”

He doesn’t need Robby to answer, because he already knows what he’s going to say, and his thoughts are already there.

_Jess_.

Jess hates raisins.


	16. x-ray vision, salami, and a toast

One burrito later (okay, maybe two, maybe three – who’s keeping count here?) and Nick manages to shake off Robby, though Robby makes Nick promise to keep in touch and invite him to the next apartment gathering (“You love raisins, I hate raisins: we’re buddies for life,” Robby tells him gleefully, completely oblivious to the expression of slight terror on Nick’s face, holding his hand up for a high-five. Nick high-fives him, but mostly to get him to leave him alone and not because he actually wants to. He likes Robby, but buddies for _life_? Yeah, no.)

What he can’t shake off as easily though is what Robby had said about differences, and how maybe, just maybe, over the years, all the fundamental differences that he’s always associated with him and Jess’ messy breakup aren’t relevant anymore. He didn’t have a plan back then, but now he owns a bar and a publisher wants to publish his book. Jess had her life all planned out, but now she’s made it to principal and whatever comes next is a complete mystery. They’re not—they’re not the same people as they were back then, and maybe things would be different this time.

(“You’ve always been on this path, and now that you’re at the end of it and you’ve reached the goal, you know, it’s a little scary. As a guy who has never had a path like that, I’m personally really excited to see what happens next.”)

He tries to call Jess again on the way to the park, but she doesn’t pick up; not on the first try, or the fifth, and yeah, she’s definitely ignoring his calls and it’s frustrating to no end. He’s desperate to talk to her so he can start figuring out what’s suddenly changed, and tell her about his meeting tomorrow morning. He ends up in front of the park bench instead (which, ugh, that damn racoon is already in his spot when he arrives), venting to a smiley, peaceful Tran. Tran reacts correctly at all the right moments: he proudly pats him on the shoulder as he tells him that he’d made it through his reading without having a nervous breakdown, he beams at him when he mentions the fact that a publisher wants to meet with him tomorrow, he frowns as he informs him that Jess isn’t picking up his calls again, and he purses his lips in thought as he repeats what Robby had said. He’s not sure where he’d be without Tran, if he’s entirely honest. It's...nice to be able to talk about everything he's feeling to someone who isn't going to judge him.

“What do you think?” Nick asks, feeling much lighter now that everything’s out in the open. “Do you—do you think I’ve changed? Changed enough, I mean.” (For...Jess.)

Tran tilts his head to the side, blinking at him: _you won’t know until you try._ Nick swallows, throat suddenly a little dry, but Tran continues staring at him, holding his gaze. He’s not entirely sure what’s going on, Tran’s expression unreadable to him for once, but then Tran suddenly chuckles loudly, reaching his hands out towards him. Nick instantly baulks, putting his hands up in protest (“No, man, no offence, but I don’t think that water massage thing is going to work right now,” he says, though Tran just chuckles harder.) Instead of pulling him up like he thought, Tran reaches one hand into his pocket – which, uh, okay there _,_ buddy, kinda invading my personal space – and pulls out the coin that he’s been carrying every day since it resurfaced. He holds it out to Nick, palm outstretched, and looks him in the eye once more: _if you love her, you’ll make it work_. _You’re a better man than you think, Nick._

(side-note: how did he know the coin was there? Does he have x-ray vision?)

* * *

It’s getting dark by the time that he makes it back to the loft, feeling a whole lot more at peace after having spoken to Tran. The fact that Tran believes in him makes him want to believe in himself, and he thinks he’s getting a whole lot better at that. Didn’t the reading this morning prove that? He tries to call Jess once more, because maybe Tran’s powers have influence over the people in his life too, but he’s left slightly hollow and deflated as Jess’ phone once again goes to voicemail. If Jess isn’t going to pick up his calls, maybe he should just—maybe he should just go to Portland? Except, he’s not sure if Jess would open the door if he showed up out of the blue, and he’s not entirely sure what he would actually say to her when he saw her, and—wait, Miller, you have that publisher meeting tomorrow morning, you can’t just spontaneously go to Portland! That would be a completely reckless, impulsive move and you’re—you’re not that guy. You need to think everything through first and make sure that you don’t screw this up.

He shakes his head hard, refocusing. He needs to get through this meeting first, but to do that, he needs the help of someone more…business-minded. He hates to admit it (and he would never admit it out loud, even if he was being held hostage), but he needs Schmidt. Nick glances down at his phone as it beeps in his hand and he lets out a deep sigh as he sees the low battery notification flashing. Great. This is just _fantastic._

“Winston? Aly? You home?” Nick yells, as he starts rummaging in the loft for the communal charger.

It’s not in all the usual neutral rooms: it’s not in the living room or the kitchen, or even the bathroom. Damn it, he misses the days when he had a phone that had a _different_ charger (yeah, okay, he guesses he could have just bought his own charger, but that would have required both time and effort). His phone beeps unhappily again, now at a mere 5%, and he rubs a hand over his face in exasperation. Sometimes he really questions why he’s thirty something and still living with roommates. He slams the door on his way out – though it’s a bit of a wasted gesture, because there’s clearly no-one else home – and he drives over to Schmidt’s house. He lets himself in after trying every key in his plastic bag, announcing his arrival as loud as he possibly can so that Schmidt doesn’t accidentally pepper spray him again (that guy takes security way too seriously).

Schmidt, for some bizarre reason, is standing in his living room in the dark and entirely alone, but Nick doesn’t question it (he _is_ a weird guy); instead, he sighs loudly, slumping himself down on the couch, which, yeah, he doesn’t really love. (it’s uncomfortably hard and doesn’t have the same dip in the cushions as the couch in 4D, and all in all? Bad couch.)

  
“What are you doing here?” Schmidt asks, cutting him off as he starts complaining about the couch. He’s trying to do them a favour here; they could at least thank him for his advice.

“Well, I need to talk to you and my phone’s only at five percent.”

“Well, why didn’t you—”

“I can’t find the charger.”

“It’s under Winston’s pillow,” Schmidt informs him, which—yeah, okay, he should have probably checked Winston’s room before leaving the loft, but it’s supposed to be a communal charger! Communal chargers should stay in communal rooms! Isn’t that the unspoken – or, really, _spoken_ – rule?

Schmidt calls him out on it immediately, and _fine_ , okay, yes, he didn’t look in Winston’s room, but he really doesn’t have time for this. He’s here now, isn’t he?

“—I didn’t look in Winston’s room, but I need to talk to you,” he tells Schmidt, cutting him off. “An editor wants to publish my book.”

“Pass immediately and start a bidding war. I’m getting ahead of myself. Mazel, that’s incredible, Nick!”

“Thanks,” he replies, then, because he can’t help himself and he has the suspicion that Schmidt probably knows more about this than he lets on, just like before: “I called Jess, but she didn’t answer. I was really hoping to tell her about it, but she hung up on me earlier and now she won’t pick up the phone.”

Schmidt looks at him, eyebrows raised.

“That’s, uh, very strange,” he says, without missing a beat. “I have absolutely no idea why that is. _None_.”

Nick squints at him, not entirely buying it, but in the dark, it’s hard to read his expression properly and he can’t quite tell what he’s thinking. (Seriously, why bother installing lights in the house if you’re not going to use them?) He sighs again, but pushes that problem to the back of his head temporarily, focusing on why he really came here.

“You’re coming with me to the meeting tomorrow. I’m picking you up at nine AM,” he tells Schmidt, and it’s a statement rather than a question, because he _needs_ Schmidt there. He doesn’t do well in fancy meetings and Schmidt's, well, Schmidt's a fancy kinda guy.

Schmidt’s distracted though, checking his phone, and he’s suddenly saying that he needs to go to the kitchen, standing up and leaving him on the couch without another word.

Huh.

He follows Schmidt towards the kitchen because the last thing he ate today was those burritos and he hasn’t had dinner yet and he’s starving. Deep thinking tends to have that effect on him. He starts investigating their fridge, which has many cartons of coconut water in it (like _a lot_ ), but no angel hair pasta, but then Schmidt’s left him to go to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Again, _huh_. Schmidt’s acting real weird tonight, and that's really saying something.

Nick’s distracted by thinking about it any longer than he has to though, spotting a packet of salami shoved right at the back of the fridge behind a mountain of avocados (why do they have nine avocados in here and no pasta? Where the hell are the carbs? Serious question.) He tugs it out, shoves a couple of slices in his mouth, and goes to put it back into the fridge… except then he remembers that he didn’t wash his hands before touching the salami and Schmidt would _kill_ him – literally – if he ever found out (“Nicholas, do _not_ put your filthy hands near my food! I will murder you.”) so he goes looking for a trash bin instead. It’s nowhere in sight though; at least, nowhere he can see in the dark, which, again, seriously, what even is this house? No wonder Schmidt and Cece are always hanging out in the loft if they’re living like this in here. He ends up dumping the salami into the toilet, but then realises that salami…well, salami floats, apparently. Huh. Well, too late now. It's done.

Nick heads back to find Schmidt, relaying what happened, but Schmidt just responds with _what?_ and tugs him – _hard_ – back to the front of the house, away from the bedroom. He goes without too much protest because yeah, he probably deserves this after leaving the salami in the toilet (except, you know, if they had just had some pasta and trash bins in clear view like normal people, this wouldn’t have happened! Long story short: really not his fault.)

Schmidt continues pulling him until they’re outside of his house, standing outside his car.

“What are you wearing to the meeting tomorrow?” He asks, one hand still holding the edge of his shirt as if he’s afraid that he’s about to bolt.

Nick thinks, tilts his head.

“Uh, I—I don’t know,” he says, because who the hell plans out their outfit the day in advance? Certainly not Nick Miller, that’s for sure. “Probably just a shirt and shorts?”

Schmidt lets out an audible gasp at that, a look of clear disgust on his face.

“Nicholas, you are not wearing shorts!” He exclaims, throwing his hands dramatically in the air. “Get in the car, we’re going to the loft right now.”

“Get off me!” Nick groans as Schmidt is suddenly pushing him towards his car. “I don’t need you to— _stop!_ For the love of God, Schmidt, let go of me! Only one of us can drive, and hey, wait, don’t—don’t climb over me, you clown, just get in the other side like a normal person! You just kicked me in the face!”

* * *

_I'm taking Nick back to the loft and I'm going to make sure he stays there. I can’t believe Jess wants to move out over this idiot. – Schmidt_

_…is there really salami in the toilet? – Schmidt_

_Yeah, there is. A lot of it. – Cece xox_

_That idiot! - Schmidt_

* * *

Schmidt physically manhandles him into the loft and down the hallway towards his bedroom (“hey, buddy, you don’t need to hold onto my arm, I’m walking!”). He stops still at the doorway as he flings open the door with his free hand, his expression morphing into one of mild disgust as he sees the mess that is inside. He’s been busy lately, okay? He hasn’t had time to…sort his stuff out since Reagan moved out.

“Nicholas, when’s the last time you vacuumed your floor?” Schmidt asks, sniffing the air in a manner that is entirely unnecessary. It’s messy, yeah, but it doesn’t _smell_ , at least, he doesn’t think so anyway. “There’s yarn everywhere!”

Nick shrugs, scratching his neck, a little embarrassed. Schmidt’s not wrong; his room has looked better than this.

“It’s fine, I’ll get around to tidying up tomorrow, I promise,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ve just been…busy.”

Schmidt squints at him, expression morphing into something softer, more serious.

“I’m sorry about you and Reagan,” he says slowly. “If you want to talk about it, I’m all ears.”

Nick shakes his head.

“No, it’s okay. I’m fine,” he replies, though he reaches out to pat Schmidt’s shoulder anyway.

The thing is, messy train incident aside, his breakup with Reagan was maybe one of the smoothest breakups he’s ever gone through: no tears, no bad feelings. They’d both realised that their relationship wasn’t working out for either of them and, in the end, it was a mutual decision to part ways. He’s grateful for their relationship, in the sense that it helped him figure out what he really wanted and, you know, Reagan’s a great girl, she’ll be fine. The current mess in his room is not so much a post-breakup thing, but more that he’s been distracted by, well, this whole situation with Jess. (Why isn’t she calling him back?! What did he do?)

“It’s not about that, anyway,” he says, slowly, vaguely.

Schmidt squints a bit harder at him, one eyebrow slowly raising, meeting his eyes.

“Then, what is it about?”

Nick shrugs, shakes his head lightly.

“I honestly—I don’t know,” he says, unable to find the right words to express the tumultuous thoughts that keep coming and going in his head. “Just…figuring myself out, I guess.”

Schmidt considers this, an unreadable expression passing over his face. He looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he claps him on the back (a little too hard, if you ask him), and then rubs his hands together.

“Right, well, let me help you clean up and then we can find something for you to wear that _isn’t_ shorts.”

Nick nods, but he reaches a hand to stop Schmidt as he starts rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, his eyes slowly taking in the scene in front of him.

“It’s my mess, I’ll clean it up,” he says, then pushes Schmidt gently towards the closet.

Past Nick wouldn’t have blinked an eye about getting Schmidt to help him clean up – in fact, Schmidt would have probably been doing _all_ the cleaning up while he protested – but he’s not that guy anymore. It’s his mess to clean up; his responsibility.

“Why don’t you get to work finding something in my closet while I deal with this?”

Schmidt nods, and it's quiet for a few moments, both of them focusing on the task at hand, but then...

“Nick, why is there meat in your closet?”

* * *

By the time he’s sorted his room out, yarn piled neatly in one corner, clothes folded, meat…removed, he turns to see Schmidt brandishing several shirts and pants at him.

“Try these on,” he says. Nick takes them from him and waits for Schmidt to turn around so that he can change, but he doesn’t; instead, Schmidt just sits himself gingerly on the edge of his bed, looking up at him. 

“Turn around, Schmidt,” Nick orders, pulling a face, but Schmidt just leans back on his elbows, clearly not planning on doing that any time soon. “Schmidt, I swear, turn around, or just—cover your eyes or something.”

Schmidt raises a hand to his eyes, but there’s an obvious gap between his fingers, and—this _clown_. He thought they were having a moment here and he has to do something like this? He raises his eyes upwards, taking a deep breath.

“Schmidt, for the last time, I’m not letting you watch me change,” he says, grimacing. “You know what? I’m going to change in the closet.”

Nick squeezes himself into the corner of the closet, where he’s pretty sure he’s mostly out of view, but he also doesn’t trust Schmidt to not just poke his head around the wall whilst he’s got half his pants off. (“Nicholas, don’t be so ridiculous,” he hears Schmidt say, “we’re _best friends_!”) He lets out a deep sigh, says a quick prayer, and then changes as fast as he can, tugging on one of the shirts that Schmidt has picked out, followed by pants. He cautiously peers around the edge until he can see Schmidt again, and immediately Schmidt glances him up and down and shakes his head hard.

“Next,” he orders, and Nick retreats back into his closet. He has a feeling that this is going to be a long night. (honestly, if you ask him, he doesn’t know why Schmidt has picked out all these long pants: he looks best in shorts. That's obvious.)

It takes over twenty iterations – well, okay, maybe not: he doesn’t have that many clothes, but it sure feels like it – before Schmidt’s finally happy.

“That’s the outfit,” Schmidt says, eyes lighting up. “That’s the one.”

There’s a low whistle behind them, and they turn to see Winston at the doorway, an approving look on his face.

“What are we doing here?” He asks, then glances between them, Schmidt still in his work clothes and Nick in this outfit that Schmidt’s thrown together. “Should I also…get in a suit?”

“No need,” Schmidt says, shaking his head. “We’re just planning an outfit for tomorrow morning: a publisher wants to talk to Nick about publishing The Pepperwood Chronicles!”

“What? That’s amazing, Nick!” Winston exclaims, a genuine grin spreading over his face, clapping him on the back. “Wait here, I’m going to go and—just wait here.”

Schmidt and Nick exchange glances, mirroring expressions of confusion on their faces, but Winston’s suddenly back, three ice-cold beers in his arms, handing one out to each of them.

“Let’s make a toast,” Winston says, though Nick is already shaking his head, waving a hand at him dismissively (“no, we don’t need to—we don’t need to do that.”) Schmidt slaps him across the cheek at that, followed by Winston, which, _hey_ , uncalled for, but he falls silent nevertheless.

“Stop being an idiot, Nick,” Winston tells him, Schmidt nodding profusely beside him.

He frowns at the both of them, though it’s a half-hearted frown because he, well, _okay_ , he appreciates their support even if he’d never tell them that to their faces.

“This is a big deal. You finally did it, and I, for one, am really proud of you.”

Nick swallows, licks his lips, a little uncomfortable under both of their gazes, but nods once. Yeah, he guesses…he guesses he _is_ doing it. Sure, maybe he’ll walk out of tomorrow’s meeting without a book deal (though part of him suspects Schmidt would murder Merle if that happened), but, regardless, someone was actually interested in publishing his book. That’s _huge_. He's always dreamed about being a published author, but he didn't ever believe that it would actually happen in his lifetime. He never truly believed he was good enough until now.

“To Nick,” Winston says, saluting him with his beer.

Schmidt echoes the sentiment, raising his bottle as well, and he smiles, suddenly dangerously _teary_. What the—why is he— _what?_ Why is his body betraying him like this? He blinks hard, once, twice, rubbing the back of his hand roughly over his eyes.

“Oh, come over here,” Schmidt says, a little gruffly, and wait, is Schmidt crying too? He grimaces as Schimdt tugs him forward, wrapping his arms around him, Winston following suit.

To Nick, indeed.


	17. chicago, shorts and an epiphany

Once Schmidt has meticulously ironed and folded his clothes for tomorrow (even his _socks!_ Who irons socks? Schmidt had wanted to iron his boxers too, but he’d drawn a hard line at that: yeah, thanks, but no thanks), he heads home, leaving Winston and Nick finishing off their second beers in his room. Today has been a whirlwind of events, but he’s really glad that Schmidt and Winston were here to witness it. It’s…nice, makes him feel all, uh, warm inside. Maybe. Kinda. He raises his bottle in Winston’s direction as he hears the front door close:

“Chicago,” he says, a wry smile on his face, Winston reaching out to clink their bottles together.

They drink in silence for a while, both of them comfortable enough in each other’s company to not need to speak, and Nick takes the time to let himself really digest the fact that he’s meeting a _publisher_ tomorrow. He’s not really sure what to expect from his meeting with Merle tomorrow, but the fact that he’s even thinking about it is wild.

“Hey, do you remember that time when I dragged you to the zoo? When I was writing _Z is for Zombies_?” Nick asks as he remembers the journey that he’s taken to get here, his mind flashing back to College Nick procrastinating from studying for his law school exams by writing random snippets and crafting word searches (it’s surprisingly hard to create one with no actual words in it; he’d found that out the hard way). It had taken him years to finish _Z_ _is for Zombies_ , and he probably - definitely - wouldn’t have managed to finish it if it wasn’t for Winston.

(“Nick, you’re not a finisher. I get it, man, you’re scared, and that’s okay: be scared.”)

Winston smiles, nodding at the memory, glancing up at him.

“Yeah, I remember,” he replies, tone pensive. “You’ve come a long way, man. Now you’re not just someone who wants to be like Hemingway, but you’re an author in your own right.”

Nick smiles back, repeating the words in his head. He’s an author. He’s a goddamn author. Nick Miller is an author. Part of him wishes his dad was still alive, just so that he could have shown him that he wasn’t a complete mess. He thinks his dad would have probably been proud of him, in his own way.

“I never did thank you for what you did that day,” Nick says slowly, twisting slightly so that he’s facing Winston properly. “For, you know, pushing me…so, thank ya.”

“Any time,” Winston says, leaning back against the wall, taking another sip of his beer.

It falls silent again for a while, but then Winston’s suddenly sitting up straight, looking at him directly in the eyes.

“Aly found my dad’s number,” he says, in a rush, almost as if he couldn’t keep it to himself any longer.

Nick blinks, gaping at him as the words sink in.

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah, there was a whole thing where I thought he was the diaper bandit and that would have been really weird, but then—anyway, it’s really him. Aly found his number.”

He scans Winston’s face, but it’s largely unreadable, his expression set in the subtlest of frowns. He knows Winston though and he knows how much not having a dad around secretly bothered him when they were kids. He remembers the number of times that Winston used to hang out at his house just _because_ , how he’d idolised his dad like he was his own, how he’d always insisted on calling him Pop-Pop even when they found themselves sucked into Walt’s latest scam (rest in peace).

“What are you going to do about it?”

“I haven’t decided,” Winston replies, passing his bottle from hand to hand, foot tapping on the ground. “It’s just—I don’t _need_ him, you know? He left when I was three and he never came back. He never even sent me a letter.”

Nick nods slowly, running a hand messily through his hair, letting Winston continue as he listens intently.

“…but if I don’t call him, I’ll never know. I’ll never know why he left. I shouldn’t care, I know I shouldn’t, because I’m doing fine, but he’s…he’s my dad.”

Winston lets out a breath, then a quiet, hollow chuckle, taking another sip.

“Yeah. I get it. I mean, not literally, of course, but I—I get the hesitation,” Nick starts, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder. “Look, whatever you decide, I’m here for ya. Always will be. Chicago.”

Winston shoots him a small smile.

“Thanks, man,” he says, resting his back against the wall again, expression wistful. He glances at Nick out of the corner of his eye, adding, “…and whatever _you_ decide, I’m here for you.”

He nods in response, then frowns.

“Wait, what am I deciding?”

Winston just shrugs at him, takes a final swig of his bottle, then hoists himself to his feet and starts heading out of his room. Nick watches him go, his brow furrowing as Winston glances back to look at him, just once, and says,

“Maybe we both just need to be brave. Be brave, Nick.”

“About what? About what, Winston?!”

* * *

The loft is eerily quiet when he wakes up the next morning, rudely woken up by his alarm. He buries his head into his pillow with a groan, momentarily wondering why on Earth he’d set his alarm this early, then remembers the events of yesterday. He drags himself out of his bed sleepily, glances at the neatly folded pile of clothes on his desk, right in front of his Pepperwood board that’s still on display. He takes a deep breath as he stares at Photo Jess, eyes moving over all the intertwined bits of yarn, and then checks his phone, hoping for a message from Jess. There's nothing there, so he tries calling her once more. It’s early, but he knows Jess well enough to know that she was probably already awake half an hour ago, making herself breakfast in that little pink robe of hers. He doesn't get a response though, the phone line staying dead, and he sighs, rubbing at his temple. Miller, get through this meeting and then fix this mess, once and for all.

Nick pulls on the shirt and pants that Schmidt had chosen out, scarfs down a bagel and a handful of raisins from the kitchen, and then heads out of the loft to Schmidt’s house. The more he drives, the more weirdly nervous he starts to become, the first beads of sweat forming at his temple. He’s…he’s really doing this; he’s really going to talk to a publisher about his book. Schmidt takes one look at him when he pulls up at their door and instantly slaps him across the face, then again, despite Nick’s attempts to push him away.

“What the hell was that for?!”

“You’re sweating all over your shirt,” Schmidt says, grimacing at him, gingerly pulling away and brushing down his jacket. “Cut it out.”

“I can’t help it,” he replies, then pulls a face because _wow_ , is Schmidt grumpy this morning. Grumpier than him even, and that's saying something, considering it's not even 9 AM yet. “It’s a normal human bodily function!”

Schmidt gets into the passenger seat, letting out a deep sigh of frustration.

“Nick, stop this,” he starts, reaching out to slap him again. Hard. “ _The Pepperwood Chronicles_ is a masterpiece, aside from that despicable character Schmith, who I still don’t understand, but— Nick, you’re a damn good writer and they’d be lucky to publish your book. No notes, remember? Now stop sweating because it’s disgusting and _drive._ ”

Nick stares at him, eyes wide, split between being genuinely touched by his words and genuinely terrified, but he nods once and starts driving. He can do this. He’s done a lot of things that he never thought he’d be capable of over the past few years, and this is just another thing on the list. (Right?)

By the time they reach Merle’s office (which, he notices, is in a very fancy building. How much do publishers get paid?!), he’s gotten a hold of his nerves, feeling much more confident about everything. This is just one meeting, and it’s going to be fine. They’re directed to a couch to wait for Merle and they both sit down, Schmidt letting out a small sigh of relief as he leans back. He glances around at everyone milling around the waiting room, all of them dressed up smart, and he—he should have worn shorts. He would have looked amazing in shorts, and since when did he start taking Schmidt’s fashion advice seriously? 

“—I got rid of all the shorts, you nutball,” Schmidt interrupts, irritation clear in his voice, and Nick leans back slightly, just in case Schmidt tries to slap him again.

“Man, you are really grumpy this morning,” he tells Schmidt.

“Well, I was up late last night talking to Cece about _you_ ,” Schmidt replies, leaning forward to meet his gaze, a slight glare on his face as if that fact is all his fault.

He frowns at him in surprise, letting out an incredulous protest: _for what?!_ Why would Schmidt be talking to Cece about him?

“Nick, I want to tell you something, but...but I can’t,” Schmidt says, almost hesitant, and Nick frowns harder in confusion. Schmidt is really all over the place this morning. “So, I’m just gonna ask you this: why on Earth do you think that you are so okay with this Reagan breakup?”

He answers immediately, because he’s already come to terms with that, and he’s not really sure what Schmidt is trying to get at here. Reagan and him are just at different places of their life, and it’s fine, and Schmidt _knows_ that because he'd told him yesterday, and—

“—Why hasn’t Jess called me back?”

“You guys are pretty good friends, right?” Schmidt asks, which Nick nods at, because _yeah_ , she’s his best friend, not that he’d never tell Schmidt that. “But, if you remember correctly, you didn’t even want Jess to move in to the loft. Nick, why do you think that is?”

He tilts his head. He remembers meeting Jess for the first time and how she’d introduced herself brightly and then launched into an unnecessarily long story about her ex, and though it was all so _irrelevant_ to the situation at hand, he couldn’t help being captivated by every word, unable to look away from her blue eyes. He remembers Jess telling them that she would probably be watching _Dirty Dancing_ at least six or seven times a day because of her breakup and that she liked singing to herself, facts that should have immediately made him say a hard _no_ to letting her move in as it went against everything that ol’ Nick Miller stood for, but he’d been…weirdly okay about it. Intrigued, even. He remembers being overly defensive about Schmidt telling her that he’d been recently dumped too, instantly uncomfortable by the look of sympathy on her face. He’d been on the edge about agreeing to Jess moving in, because, well, he—he was afraid. He was afraid, because she was beautiful, and interesting, and unlike anyone he’d ever met before. Still is.

“Nick, you have been in love with this girl from the moment you opened the door and you first laid eyes on her,” Schmidt tells him earnestly.

He tilts his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement of that fact, because _yeah_ , he knows that, but he’s also faintly surprised that Schmidt knows that too (has he really been that transparent? Does Jess know? Is that why she’s not picking up her phone anymore?) Also, where exactly is Schmidt trying to go with this conversation?

“I have never seen you look at anyone else like that in my entire life, except, maybe, on a few occasions, me—”

“—I’ve never looked at you the same way I look at Jess,” he immediately cuts in. He argues back and forth with Schmidt over this (stupid, very much irrelevant) point, but his mind is still stuck on Schmidt’s previous words.

Yeah, okay, he still has feelings for Jess and apparently Schmidt knows it and is maybe (?) trying to push him to admit it out loud, but it doesn’t—it doesn’t change anything. He hasn’t seen Jess in weeks and she’s not answering his calls, and he doesn’t know where he stands and it’s _terrifying_. He doesn’t know if she’s ever going to come back home. He doesn't know if she's ever going to pick up the phone and talk to him again.

“You’re wrong,” he counters, though he doesn’t mean wrong about being in love with Jess, because _he is_ , but more that it’s just—it’s not as simple as Schmidt is trying to imply.

He’s not hesitating because he’s not sure whether he loves her or not, but because of everything else. All the _what ifs_. Everything that happened last time. Everything that's happening now.

“The first time I saw Jess, I was standing in her empty room and I was looking out of the window and she was trying to get into the building. Pretty hilarious, she didn’t have her glasses on and she was bumping into stuff—" he corrects, getting a little carried away by the memory, but before he can expand and explain his thought process any further, Schmidt’s cutting in over him.

“—Will you listen to yourself? I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Jess is not in Portland, she’s here,” Schmidt says, a touch of desperation clear in his voice, and Nick stares back at him, stunned into silence, frowning in confusion, mouth twisting downwards.

Wait a second… Jess is back in California? And…she still hasn’t called him? She hasn’t come home? “She’s packing up her stuff because she’s going to move out of the loft for good.”

What?

She’s going to… _what_?

She’s moving out of the loft? For good? What does that—what does that mean?!

Nick frowns harder, mind working in overdrive, his mouth opening and closing as he processes what Schmidt has just told him, flashes of different memories from the past few weeks appearing fleetingly in his mind.

_Maybe you can convince your stupid idiot of a boyfriend that he’s going insane. He went out to buy yarn and he’s making a pinboard about Jess!_

_Because of you, Nick. She couldn’t marry me because of you._

_Would you really be okay if Jess married Sam?_

_If you really love someone, it’s simple._

_I never wanted a serious relationship and you said that you didn’t either, but you did._

_If Jess was with me, I’m sure we’d be okay. She’s got that giant heart, that’s part compass and part flashlight, and she’s just the greatest person that I’ve ever met._

_Don’t overthink it, Nick. Jess knows who you are, flaws and all._

_Jess, you know that you’re my best friend, right? I mean it, Jess; you really are._

_I know you said that not everyone gets a chance to fix their mistakes, but it’s your book: you get to choose the ending._

_We just have to find someone who’s going to eat the raisins out of our trail mixes._

_Be brave, Nick._

_Nick, you’ve been in love with this girl since the moment you opened the door and you first laid eyes on her._

“For once in your life, don’t be afraid.”

Don’t. Be. Afraid.

* * *

Nick doesn’t get the time to properly digest everything as Merle suddenly appears, ready for their meeting. The two of them stand up from the couch, though he’s still in a bit of a daze, unable to stop Schmidt from introducing himself as children’s literature’s brand new daddy ( _what_?) before it’s too late. Merle beckons them to follow him down the hallway, but Nick reaches out a hand to stop Schmidt as he starts to walk forward, a rare spark of confidence suddenly passing through him.

“Schmidt, I think I’ve got this,” he says.

Schmidt eyes him up, nodding.

“I know you do,” Schmidt tells him, then nudges his shoulder. He smiles back, grateful that Schmidt had selflessly turned up today for _him_ , but then, of course, Schmidt has to ruin it, that clown. 

“I feel like a proud dad right now,” he says, Nick pulling a face in response. “Do you think this is what it’s like to have kids?”

“Do me a favour and never refer to yourself as my dad again,” he retorts, then takes a deep breath, steadying himself. You can do this, Miller.

He’s made it halfway across the room towards Merle, when he hears Schmidt call out from behind him again, his words echoing in his head.

“Nick, remember what I said: don’t be afraid.”

* * *

He knows he should be concentrating on the meeting with Merle, but his mind is still spinning. Jess is going to move out of the loft? Without even…telling him? Why would she do that? He thought they’d reached some sort of an understanding over the past couple of days, fell into an easy banter over seagulls, and now suddenly she’s ignoring him again and she’s leaving? For good? Like...leaving, and never coming back? All he’d done since they’d had that conversation was tell her that he’d broken up with Reagan, which…wasn’t that the whole reason why she’d gone to Portland in the first place? He doesn’t understand what's changed, and he desperately wants to – _needs to_ – before it’s too late. His chest is aching, his breaths are coming out fast, and his shirt feels uncomfortably tight.

“Okay, so I do have a few changes, take or leave. What if we kill off Jessica Night in the next book?”

He blinks, Merle’s words suddenly grabbing his attention, frowning hard at the thought. What did he just say? Kill off…Jessica Night? Why would he do that? Julius Pepperwood is nothing without Jessica Night; without Jessica Night, Pepperwood would have been killed by Schmith in the first chapter! No, Pepperwood needs Jessica Night to survive, both literally and figuratively. Pepperwood needs Jessica Night to keep him in check, ground him, bring out the best in him, just like he needs Jess in his life. He can't imagine his life without Jess in it, and he doesn't want to, and—has this guy ever done this before?

“Look, Nick, I know that you’re afraid to make changes, but—”

What are you afraid of, Miller? What’s the worst that could possibly happen if you told her how you felt? The worst case scenario would be her telling you that she doesn’t feel that way anymore and moving out of the loft, but according to Schmidt, she’s doing that anyway. Are you really going to let Jess leave, possibly _forever,_ without talking to her? Nick Miller, are you really that much of a coward?

(No.)

_No._

"—Actually, I'm not afraid," he says, slowly.

The words feel unfamiliar in his mouth, heavy, but as he pictures Jess in his mind, smiling softly at him, he realises he's not afraid. He's really not afraid. He blinks a few times at the revelation, his mind clearer than it has been in weeks, his mouth curving into a smile. He's in love with his best friend, probably always has been, and this time, he's going to fight for them and he's going to do everything he can to make it work. He can't let her leave, not like this. He needs to tell her.

It's now or never, Miller.


	18. elevators and hot cross buns

_Dad, I’m coming back to Portland. – Jess xox_

_What? Why?! I’m going to kill Nick._

* * *

He’s not afraid. He’s not afraid. He’s not _afraid_. The more times he repeats those words in his head, the more confident he is that he’s making the right decision. He fell in love with Jess the moment she walked into his life and it’s the sort of love that he’s never felt about anyone else, not really. It’s Jess, it’s always been Jess, and he has to let her know how he feels before it’s too late. He has to be brave enough to take this leap of faith.

“—Okay, then you’ll think about it,” Merle says, his voice cutting through his thoughts, jolting him back to reality.

Merle tilts his head at him expectantly, waiting for an answer, and he suddenly remembers that Merle had just suggested that he kill off Jessica Night and he can’t help but let out a chuckle at what a _ludicrous_ idea that would be.

“No, I’m not going to make those changes because those ideas are really bad,” he retorts, slowly getting up to his feet to make his case, one hand reaching into his pocket to run his fingers over the coin. “Jessica Night is the whole reason Pepperwood gets out of bed every day. If we killed off Jessica Night, there would be no Pepperwood because—look, he’s in love with her, okay? She makes him a better person.”

Merle squints up at him, a slight frown on his face.

“Didn’t you say at your book reading that they would never get together? That they were…too different or something?”

Nick shakes his head, running his free hand through his hair.

“I guess I changed my mind,” he says eventually, with a shrug, remembering what the girl-in-strange-vest had said to him. “It’s my book, I get to choose the ending.”

Merle leans back in his chair, studying him silently, and Nick slowly sits himself down in his seat, wringing his hands together. He wants this book deal, of course he does, but he’s—he’s not willing to sacrifice Jessica Night over it. She means too much to him. He holds his breath as Merle continues watching him with an unreadable expression, his heart pounding.

“Okay, then. I suppose we won’t kill off Jessica Night,” Merle says finally, raising a hand in mock surrender. Nick breathes a sigh of relief, giving him a grateful smile.

“Nick, I really believe in this book and you’re clearly very passionate about it,” he continues, tapping his fingers lightly on the table in thought. He tilts his head, then reaches into his drawer to pull out a notepad, passing it across the desk. “I think that _The Pepperwood Chronicles_ would be an excellent addition to our current portfolio so if you write down your details, I’ll get my people to draw up a contract—that is, if you’re still interested in me publishing your book.”

Nick stares at the notepad blankly for a second, hands slowly curling around the pen he’s offered. This is really… happening? He blinks a few times, and he thinks he can dimly hear Jess’ voice in the back of his head (“ _Nick, you’re incredibly talented, you can do this.”)_

“Is that a yes?”

He nods once, then twice, and then again.

“Yes,” he says quickly, wiping the palms of his hands against his trousers before scribbling his address on the sheet of paper. “Yes, I’d really like you to publish my book.”

* * *

Nick leaves Merle’s office with a – more than slightly sweaty (hey, not his fault; it was a high stakes meeting!) – handshake and then sprints out into the lobby with renewed determination. Schmidt’s right: he needs to stop being afraid about all the hypotheticals, get back to the loft before Jess moves out for good and tell her what she means to him. It’s as simple as that.

“Uh, he had to go,” the girl at the counter says as he scans the room for Schmidt, reaching for a post-it on her desk, “but he left the name and number of his favourite Uber driver, uh, Beezus ‘The Man’ Tequito?”

Nick takes the post-it, frowning slightly. Schmidt just…left him? He doesn’t waste time thinking about it though, tapping in the number into his phone, his heart skipping almost painfully. Schmidt had said that Jess was packing up her stuff to move out of the loft, but he doesn’t know whether that meant that she was planning on leaving over the next few days or if she was planning on leaving right _now_. Either way, he needs—he needs to see her. He needs to convince her to stay. (For him.)

He gets hold of Beezus on the phone – okay, what is it with all these goofy names? – and then heads outside to wait for him to arrive, muttering to himself as he stands in the shade. _Please drive faster, please drive faster, please drive faster._ He starts pacing in an attempt to calm his racing pulse, dimly aware that he probably looks like a crazy person, but he just can’t miss her. He can’t be too late. He spots a bed of roses across the road and remembers how he’d bought her some that time they were driving back from the drugstore all those years ago and she’d bolted out of the car just to get away from him. It’d been stupid of him, yeah, definitely crossed some unspoken line between them, but even back then, he’d wanted to impress her enough to spend a whole $2 on roses without thinking twice. (They were nice roses, sure, but he’d been incredibly broke at the time and those roses just ended up on his bedside table until they died because he forgot that they needed water.) Nick stares at the roses across the road, head tilted in thought. These days, he’s earning a decent living and he can afford $2 roses, so should he…stop at a flower shop first to buy her roses? Jess likes flowers, right?

He’s interrupted from his thoughts as a car pulls up next to him, the person inside calling his name. He gets into the car, hesitates slightly as he’s asked where he wants to go, but _Miller,_ come on, you do not have time to take a detour to buy flowers. Jess could be moving out of the loft right this second (and, also, let’s not pretend like you know the address of a flower shop off the top of your head: you’ve never stepped foot in one in your life!) He recites off the loft’s address, then leans back into the seat, scrolling through his contacts. Maybe he can just message Jess and ask her to stay? At least, until they’ve talked and she’s heard what he has to say? Or, maybe he can message Schmidt, berate him for just _leaving_ like that, and then ask him if he can stall Jess from moving out?

“Mr. Schmidt likes to party. You like to party?”

Nick blinks at the interruption, and then suddenly there’s lights flashing in the car. Colour-changing lights, to be exact. Well, that’s a...that's a first.

“No, uh, Beezus, I don’t like to party. I’m gonna go see a girl,” he says, trying to redirect his attention back to his phone again. He needs to call _someone_. Do something. He can’t just stay still and wait.

“Want to hear some music?”

“Sure, yeah, that could be inspiring,” he says, partly to get this guy to _shut up_ so he can focus, but also partly because he guesses he can’t really go wrong with music—

—except, it turns out that he can. Nick stares at the front seat, features twisting into a horrified grimace, as Beezus starts reciting _Hot Cross Buns_ loudly to him and—surely there’s no way that Schmidt, with all his weird, fancy tastes, actually enjoys this ‘music’. _Surely_.

He sighs, runs a hand roughly over his face and tries his hardest to block Beezus’ voice out as he types out a quick message to as many people as he can. He’s not sure what’s happening back in the loft and what he’s about to go home to, but an unsettling feeling is starting to build in his gut, his hands are beginning to shake and he can feel himself sweating. She can’t leave like this. There’s too much unfinished business, and he loves her, and—he can’t let her go. Not when he’s finally not afraid to tell her how he feels, no matter the consequences.

_Jess, it’s Nick. Schmidt told me that you were moving out, but don’t go. Not yet. I really need to talk to you. I’m coming back to the loft now so if you’re still there, please wait. – Nick_

_Schmidt, I don’t know why you left, but you were right about everything. Can you stall Jess for me? – Nick_

_Winston, if you or Aly are in the loft and Jess is there, can you make sure that she doesn’t leave? I really need to tell her something. – Nick_

* * *

Beezus pulls up in front of the loft building and Nick chucks some bills at him and then sprints towards the door. He jabs at the elevator buttons repeatedly until the doors finally open, slides inside and then waits impatiently as it takes him upstairs. _Go faster, go faster, go faster_. _When did these elevators become so damn slow?!_ He runs down the hallway, struggles a second with the lock (why does he have so many keys?) and then heads straight towards Jess’ room. He takes a deep breath, gently pushing the door to her room open, half-afraid of what he’s about to see inside, his heart plummeting as he realises it’s completely empty. He hasn’t seen this room – _her_ room – this empty in a long time, and it’s just—it feels fundamentally wrong. His heart twists sharply as he thinks about where the colourful pillows used to be, the piles of yarn, the mountains of purses in the corner. There are so many memories that are intrinsically linked with this room that he feels weirdly hollow himself just looking at the bare space.

Nick forces himself to slowly walk into the centre of the room, even though he feels more gut-wrenchingly awful with every step that he takes, cursing himself in his head.

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._

He’s too late. Jess is gone, and she’s never coming back, and he might never get the chance to tell her how he feels. He lets out a deep sigh, swallows hard, glancing around the emptiness in a stunned silence. Miller, you missed your chance, and you’re going to have to live with this for the rest of your life. You goddamn idiot.

“Can anyone help me get in the building?!”

He blinks, slowly walking towards the window and peering out. Wait, is that…Jess?! He stares down in a daze, his lips curving into a smile as he watches her try to get into the building, his heart aching because _damn it_ , it really has always been Jess and why did it take him so long to figure this out? Why did he wait until it was too late to get his shit together and realise that he was still in love with her—wait, Miller, _she’s actually here_. She's outside. Maybe you’re not too late. Maybe you can still fix this.

“Jess,” he calls out, shaking his head, his smile growing wider as she glances up and meets his eyes. It’s Jess. It’s really Jess. He's not imagining things, and god, does it feel good to see her in person.

“Hang on, I’m coming down!”

He’s running suddenly, sprinting out of her room and towards the elevator, jabbing at the buttons as hard and as fast as he can. _Come on, come on, come on_. This is it, Miller. You can’t—you can’t let her leave. This is your last chance. He runs out of the building as soon as the elevator reaches the ground floor, scans the sidewalk for any sign of her, but she’s not here, and he glances up to see that she’s in the loft (why is she up there?!) and—

“Stay right there!”

He runs back inside, jamming the elevator button again, contemplates taking the stairs for once in his life, but then he hears the elevator beep behind him. The doors finally open, but there’s a delivery guy inside with a whole pile of boxes, and seriously, does the universe hate him or something? He doesn’t have time for this, okay? He needs to catch Jess before it's too late.

“Oh, come on, _please go faster_ ,” he grits out, a hint of desperation mixed with pure frustration in his voice as the man starts moving out as if he's got all the time in the world to waste. “I got to tell my best friend I’m in love with her.”

“Take a shower first, I’ve never seen anyone sweat so much.”

“You take a shower! You smell terrible! You smell terrible!” he retorts, and then—

He turns back to the elevator, and Jess is there, staring at him, chuckling ("Hey, Miller.") He stares back at her for a second, stunned still, because it’s _Jess! Jess is here!_ and now that he’s this close to her, he knows that he really—he really does love her with every fibre of his being, whatever that’s worth. The doors start to close, and he immediately puts a hand out to stop it. He slides inside determinedly, unable to stop a smile from crossing over his face. He’s in love with Jess, and he’s not afraid, and he’s never been so sure about _anything_. The realisation is overwhelming enough that he can’t bring himself to speak or turn to look at her for a moment, even when the doors close in front of them. He’s just feeling so many…things, and his heart feels warm, and he hasn’t felt this way in a really, really long time.

“Schmidt’s a lucky guy,” Jess murmurs softly from beside him, and it prompts him to slowly turn to look at her, brow already furrowing, but she’s still staring straight ahead at the closed elevator doors, the hint of a smile on her lips.

“What?”

She turns then, head ever so slightly tilted, fixing him with those captivating blue eyes, and he almost forgets where they are and what he has to tell her.

“Your best friend,” she says. “Schmidt, right?”

He pulls a face at that, shudders slightly at the thought, because, _no_ , he clearly did not mean that he was in love with Schmidt. He doesn’t reply, not straightaway, scanning her face. Jess’ expression is unreadable, for the most part, but there’s a glint in her eyes that makes his heart lift.

“I am _not_ in love with Schmidt,” he states firmly, just so that they’re all clear here.

Jess lets out a soft laugh, but it’s a tad unsteady, and he glances down to realise that her hands are shaking. She’s holding a bunch of note cards in her fingers, and he thinks he sees his name written in big, colourful bubble letters on the front one, maybe even some glitter. It’s so quintessentially _Jess_ that he can’t help but grin widely despite his nerves. He runs a hand through his hair, dragging his eyes up to meet her gaze again, his heart flipping in his chest. There are so many things that he wants to tell her - needs to tell her - but now that he's here and she's actually in front of him, he's not sure where to begin. Jess leans towards him ever so slightly, biting her lip, eyes wide, and the motion fills him with enough confidence to clear his throat and start getting everything off his chest, once and for all.

“Jessica,” he starts, looking her straight in the eyes and trying his hardest to keep his voice steady. “You are a beautiful woman, and my life has not been the same since I met you.”

It’s not the first time that he’s thought about saying these words to Jess in this very order, far from it, but it’s the first time that he’s had enough courage to do it.

“And, the truth is, Jess, you’re my best friend and I’m…I’m crazy about ya.”

_(“You should be with somebody who’s crazy about you, Jess.”_ )

“Yeah?” She asks, softly, almost so quiet that he wouldn’t have picked it up if it weren’t for the fact that they’ve somehow gotten so close that he can just about feel her breath against his skin. He nods, cranes his neck slightly so that he can still look into her eyes.

“Yeah,” he repeats, “I’m crazy about you. I mean it, Jess.”

She’s smiling then, looking up at him through her eyelashes, but there’s a tinge of uncertainty in her eyes that he’s not sure he likes the look of.

“Hey, Jess,” he starts, hesitating, shifting slightly. “Schmidt said that you were moving out, but I just—I had to tell ya. I couldn't let you leave without telling you.”

Jess waves a hand at him, shakes her head.

“Nick, I’ve spent the last few days practising what I was going to say to you when I saw you,” she says slowly, her voice wavering slightly, and he falls silent, listening, fighting the strong urge to place his hands on her hips and pull her towards him because he’s still not completely sure how she’d react. “This is going to sound stupid, but I didn’t think that you were going to feel the same way and now I’m—I’m not sure what to say. I didn't prepare for this.”

He squints at her, narrowing his eyes, then slowly smiles as her words properly register in his head. _I didn’t think that you were going to feel the same way._ Jess… Jess feels the same way. Jess is in love with him. He tentatively lifts his hand up and slides it over hers, stilling her hand from shaking and threatening to spill the note cards all over the elevator floor.

“How about a: Nick, I’m crazy about you too?” He tries, fighting to keep his voice as steady as possible even though his blood is rushing so loudly in his head that he almost feels dizzy. Jess smiles wider at that, her eyes softening, and she reaches up with her free hand and presses it against his cheek, gently moving her thumb against his skin. 

He’s not sure who makes the first move, but suddenly, Jess’ hand is reaching up and curling into his hair, pulling his head down, and his hands are against her hips, tugging her flush against him. He’s kissing her then, their lips moving frantically against one another, and it’s not enough and too much at the same time, and unfamiliar and yet familiar, and he doesn’t know where to place his hands, settling for running them over her back of her jacket. He's not sure how much time passes or where they even are anymore, entirely lost in _Jess,_ but at some point, she stills, gently pushing at his chest. He pauses, but he can't help himself and drops his head to brush his lips against hers once more, then twice, before taking a slight step back, enough so that he can see her face.

“Hey, is everything okay—"

“—How do I know that this is real?” Jess asks, biting her lip. He opens his mouth to protest, but she grips his shirt a little tighter, clutching the material between her fingers, and he falls silent again, tilting her head to let her continue.

“Nick, I…” She trails off, takes a deep breath, and he reaches out to take her hand in his, intertwining their fingers, squeezing her hand encouragingly. She glances down, then composes herself and starts speaking again. “You just broke up with Reagan, and you really—you really did seem happy with her. How do I know that you’re not just…back-sliding?”

He purses his lips, acknowledging the bad timing. He knows that this sequence of events isn't ideal, but this—this isn’t about Reagan. If anything, his relationship with Reagan made him realise that what he really wanted was Jess.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” he says solemnly after a beat, squeezing her hand again until she looks up and meets his eyes. “Look, Jessica, when I think about the future, my future, all I see is you. I don’t care if we live on some lake or on Mars, I just—I want to spend the rest of my life with ya."

Jess’ eyes search his face, expression unreadable, and he holds his breath anxiously. He digs in his pocket with his free hand until he finds what he’s looking for, pulling their coin out and holding it up to her. Recognition crosses over her face, her eyes widening, and then she takes a careful step closer, tilting her chin up at him.

“Then, prove it,” she says, her tone almost challenging, deliberate, and his mind flashes back to when he’d said the same words to her all the way back then.

The words make little sense in the context, but he knows exactly what she means by them, and he grins widely, tugging their joined hands towards him firmly…and then he’s stumbling backwards as Jess follows through, leaning her body weight against him, her arms curling around his neck, his hands reaching around her shoulders. He kisses her hard, because he loves her, and she loves him, and this is—this is it.

It’s always been Jess.

* * *

_It’s happening! – W_

_Winston, if you’re about to send me another selfie with Ferguson, I’m going to kill you! We’re having a baby! I’m not about to let a cat overshadow my day! – Schmidt_

_Nick and Jess are making out in the elevator! – Aly_

_Those idiots finally figured it out?! Hallelujah! - Schmidt_

_Now, leave me alone, because Cece and I have some celebrating of our own to do. - Schmidt_


	19. epilogue

Nick’s breathing hard when they eventually break apart, and he can’t stop himself from grinning widely at Jess. He’s not sure how many times the elevator doors have closed and opened since they’ve been standing there, lost in each other, but frankly, he doesn’t care. All he cares about in this moment is Jess, and the fact that he told her how he felt, and he’s not scared, and she _kissed_ him back. Twice!

Jess is looking up at him, almost shyly, her fingers gently clutching the material of his shirt. “So…that happened,” she starts, breaking the silence in the way only Jess can, and then she’s laughing and he’s laughing too, because _yeah,_ that really did happen and everything in his life finally feels like it’s making sense.

He remembers something suddenly, hands moving to grip her waist.

“A publisher wants to publish the Pepperwood Chronicles!” he tells her, in a rush, “I wanted to tell you yesterday, but you wouldn’t pick up my calls, and—anyway, I met with a publisher today and he said he’s going to send me a contract!”

Jess beams widely at him, reaching up with one hand to tug his head down again, and he ducks his head slightly so that he can meet her lips.

“I’m so proud of you,” she murmurs after a beat, her face still close enough to his that he can feel her mouth forming the words. “I mean, I always knew you were going to do it, but—I’m proud of you, Miller.”

He smiles softly, his heart pounding in his chest at her words. 

“Thanks,” he replies, and then, tilts his head slightly and continues speaking, because this is the last remaining part of the whole puzzle and he has to know. “Jess, why didn’t you pick up my calls yesterday?”

Jess stills, leaning back slightly, twisting in his hold. He relaxes his grip, though not completely, starting to trace gentle, reassuring patterns into her side with his thumbs.

“Jess, I just—I want to understand everything. It’s important to me.”

Jess searches his eyes for a second, then nods once.

“I was at your book reading,” she admits, biting her lip. “You said all these things about how Jessica Night and Pepperwood would never get together and it was too—too real. I needed to get some space and that’s why I was going to move out of the loft.”

He frowns, tilts his head as he considers her words, a wave of guilt washing over him. He hates the fact that he’d made her feel this way, uncomfortable enough that she was going to _move out_ without speaking to him, but there’s nothing that he can do about it now except to prove to her that he means everything that he’s said to her in this elevator. 

“Where were you going to go?”

Jess shrugs slowly. “Portland, probably,” she says, gaze averted.

“Forever?”

“Well, I would have had to come back to Banyon Canyon once the school break was over, but…”

“…but not to the loft.”

Jess bites her lip, nods her head, and he swallows hard as he realises just how close he had been to missing her; losing her.

“Nick, it’s been…hard living here,” she says, voice so quiet that he has to strain his ears to hear her, his heart clenching painfully at her words. “I had all these feelings for you again, and I—I couldn’t do anything about it.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, thinks back to everything that had happened: how he’d constantly gone to Jess for help with Reagan whenever he had a problem, how he’d asked Jess to help him convince the others to let Reagan move in, how Jess had apparently been struggling enough with living across the hall from him that she had felt the need to move out and he _hadn’t noticed_ until it was almost too late. Way to go, Miller.

“I’m an idiot,” he says slowly, running a hand through his hair, chest tight. “I—I should have realised the position I was putting you in sooner, and I’m really sorry. For everything.”

Jess shakes her head adamantly.

“No, you’re not an idiot,” she tells him, leaning back and smoothing one hand over his cheek, letting out a slow, soft sigh as she meets his gaze. “Nick, you were happy and I—I _wanted_ that for you. I wanted you to be happy, no matter what.”

He smiles softly in response, leaning into her hold a bit. Jess might not blame him for anything that has happened, but he sure as hell knows that he has a whole lot to prove to her and he’s determined to make things right.

“I’m happy now,” he states, promises.

“Good,” she says after a beat, then grins up at him, eyes glinting, “because it’s getting late, and we’ve got a whole lot of moving to do.”

He blinks, squinting at her, then asks the unspoken question, just to be sure, holding his breath as he waits for an answer.

“You’re staying?”

Jess shoots him a shy smile, biting her lip again.

“Yes, you clown,” she says, leaning up on her tiptoes and pressing a kiss to his cheek, and he holds still until she’s pulled away, grinning widely. Jess is _staying_. Everything is going to be okay— _better_ than okay.

There’s a series of loud, emphatic clearing of throats then, and Nick turns his head to see Winston and Aly staring at them both, eyes wide. Aly’s hands are clasped in front of her, eyes suspiciously shiny, and Winston’s rocking back and forth, almost bouncing in place.

“Uh, how long have you two been standing there?” Nick asks, even though he knows it was probably long enough based on the expressions on their faces.

“I am so glad this is finally happening,” Aly says, clapping her hands.

“I’m happy for both of you. Schmidt and Cece send their congratulations as well,” Winston tells them, almost at the same time. “…though, man, you should have seen what I had lined up for step 4 of my 16-step plan to get you two back together. It was genius, I tell you: genius!”

Nick squints at him, frowning hard, Jess glancing up at him in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Where do you think that coin in your pocket came from? Did you think it just magically appeared?” Winston asks, and, well, _yeah_ , that is kinda what he assumed had happened, but this does make a lot more sense. Huh. Interesting.

“Bishop almost left a life-sized puzzle of Jess’ face outside your door,” Aly adds, one eyebrow raised, and Nick blinks twice at the words, almost choking on air, because _what?_ A life-sized puzzle? How was that supposed to help anything? Also, just, _what_?

“I managed to stop him,” Aly continues, shaking her head at Winston, though it’s more of an affectionate shake than an exasperated one, “so you owe me one, Nick. …Or, maybe, more than one after the advice I gave you about Jess?”

  
“—Wait, you went to Aly for advice and not me? I’m your oldest friend! What would Theodore K. Mullins say about this betrayal?” Winston gasps out, his hand dramatically flying to his chest, and Nick fights the urge to rolls his eyes at his unnecessary actions. Instead, he takes a couple steps forward out of the elevator until he’s close enough to slap Winston across the cheek. That clown.

“Well, maybe I’d come to you more often if you weren’t doing stupid things like making life-sized puzzles of Jess!”

“You didn’t know that I was doing that!”

There’s a laugh then, and they turn to see Jess staring at them, a wide smile on her face.

“I would have really missed you guys if I moved out,” she says, then steps forward and pulls all of them into a hug.

* * *

It’s late by the time that they manage to move all of Jess’ stuff back into the loft, all four of them working as fast as they can to avoid having to pay for an extra day of the moving truck. He doesn’t get the chance to speak to Jess properly for a while, too busy unloading and moving around boxes and bulky furniture, but he presses soft kisses against her cheek and reaches out to squeeze her hand whenever he passes her in the hallway, grinning as she beams widely at him every time. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of seeing Jess smile at him like that.

When they’ve finished unloading the last box in Jess’ room, he sticks behind to help her start unpacking, though mostly because he doesn’t want to leave her any time soon, not when they’ve spent so many weeks apart. They start opening boxes in a comfortable silence, Jess giving quiet instructions as to where he should put certain things. He’s had a hell of a day and this is—this is nice.

“Hey, Nick,” she says, after a while, and he turns to look at her, but she’s got her eyes fixed on the box she’s currently working through, though he’s not entirely sure she’s _actually_ looking at it. “What, um, what made you change your mind? About… Jessica Night and Pepperwood? About us?”

“It’s a…long story,” he replies slowly, remembering everything that had happened since Jess bolted from Socalyalcon VI and stopped answering his calls. “I guess it all started with Doctor Sam, or—or maybe even before that? I, uh, I talked to a lot of people,” he says, aware that he’s rambling now, but it’s not an easy question to answer and he can't quite find the right words.

Jess glances at him then, one eyebrow slightly quirked, expression patient.

“I want to understand,” she says gently, echoing his words from earlier, “it’s important to me.”

Nick swallows, nods, runs a hand through his hair, then realises that he has the answer a couple of metres away. Without waiting for any further words from Jess, he walks across the hallway and to his desk, tugging the pinboard in all its yarn-filled glory all the way to Jess’ room. Jess is exactly where he left her, peering at the doorway, her eyes widening in bewilderment as she sees what he’s holding.

“Nick,” she murmurs slowly, carefully. “What is that?”

“This is how I figured everything out,” he tells her, proudly propping it up on her desk, reattaching a few bits of yarn that fell off during the move. “It, uh, it all started when you left for Portland and you weren’t answering my calls, and I wasn’t sure what was going on. I had all these theories and I thought that the best way to solve this mystery would be to make a Pepperwood pinboard.”

“Naturally,” she comments, a teasing note to her voice, and it makes his heart feel warm in his chest because she's not laughing at him for doing this or thinking it's stupid, but she's actually taking this seriously. Jess gets him, always has.

She gets to her feet, walking closer so that she can examine the board better, and he starts to feel weirdly nervous, even though he knows that he shouldn’t be because she’s already told him that she loves him. It’s just—there’s a lot of himself on this board; there’s a lot of his feelings, and theories, and fears.

“Talk me through this?” Jess asks, shooting him a shy smile, reaching up with one hand to trace a piece of blue yarn with her fingertips, tilting her head slightly so that she can read all his messy scrawls.

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to start all the way from the beginning, spurred on by the way Jess’ eyes light up as he continues talking. He tells her how he thought she was just mad at him at first ("Miller, you'd know if I was mad at you."), how Doctor Sam told him why she couldn’t marry him (“He has a way with words, that Doctor Sam.”), how things had started breaking down with Reagan because he realised that he wanted someone that he could share his whole life with, down to the odd seagull sightings (“I _knew_ there was something up with that conversation!”), how he’d gotten advice from a long list of people: Tran, Aly, Russell, Robby, a girl in a strange vest, to name a few ("I hate to interrupt, but what exactly do you mean by "strange vest"? Like, on a scale of one to ten, how strange are we talking?").

“I started to realise that I’ve—well, I’ve always been in love with ya, Jess,” he admits, earnestly, “but I just—I was afraid. I didn’t want to mess things up again because you mean too much to me.”

“What made you not afraid?” Jess asks, expression soft, taking a step closer to him.

“I realised that I needed to stop worrying about what might happen because I’m not the same person that I was, and you’re not the same person that you were,” he says, slowly voicing his thoughts.

It’s weird, this whole talking-about-feelings thing, but he can’t deny the fact that it feels much better to get it all out, especially when Jess is looking up at him like that, eyes warm.

“I’m all in, Jess,” he tells her, “All in.”

There’s a beat of silence as Jess registers his words, and when she meets his gaze again, she’s staring up at him with a look that he – and Sleeping Nick – _definitely_ recognises, biting on her bottom lip. He raises one eyebrow at her, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Really, Jessica?” He says, taking one step towards her, relishing the way that her eyes widen in response. “ _This_ is doing it for you?"

Jess lets out a laugh, pressing one hand against his chest to stop him coming any closer.

“Nick Miller struggling with yarn and talking about his feelings?” she asks, her voice light, glancing between him and the pinboard, though her eyes are dark and intense in a way that makes his heart skip a few beats in his chest. “ _Definitely._ ”

“I didn’t struggle with the yarn,” he replies immediately, shaking his head. Yeah, maybe he'd had a bad experience at the stupid yarn store and he'd had to get a tetanus shot at some point, but _struggle_ is a strong word.

“I'm sure you didn’t,” Jess teases, her fingers tightening around his shirt, gently tugging at him.

“I didn’t struggle!”

There’s a pause then, Jess glancing up at him, one eyebrow quirked.

“Miller, do you really want to argue about this right now? Because there are many other things that we could be doing...”

“No,” he replies quickly, shaking his head, letting her push him towards the bed, falling onto his back as he stares up at her, “but for the record, I _didn’t_ struggle.”

“Nick, shut up,” she says, raising her eyes upwards as he continues to protest, until she lets out an exasperated sigh, dropping her head and pressing her lips against his, and yeah, okay, that shuts him up pretty well.

Neither of them speak for a while, Nick focusing on committing every second of this to memory, every soft touch and quiet gasp.

“Hey, Jess, wait,” he murmurs, sitting up suddenly as she starts fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, pressing a messy kiss to her forehead. She stills, meeting his gaze curiously.

“I really, really like ya,” he tells her, as honestly as he knows how, reaching up and tucking a curl of hair behind her ears.

“I know,” she whispers back, pushing him back down onto the bed, “and Nick? I’m all in too.”

* * *

(She reads him her notecards after, even though he half-heartedly grumbles about the glitter going everywhere. Most of it is in song, some of it contains jokes at their friends' expenses, a little bit of it is a dance about her hatred for raisins, but all of it is about how much she loves him. He's not really a song-and-dance kinda guy, but he'll make an exception for this one.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and...there we have it! THANK YOU to everyone who has read this and left comments! :) 
> 
> **edit: now has a part 2!**


End file.
